Saeva Abyssi
by Mattwho81
Summary: The Storm Heralds are thrust into deadly danger when their enemies unite to destroy them. Cut off and alone Captain Toran must test his ship and crew to the limits in order to find a way to survive. This Story is a sequel to my previous story Crux Lapis.
1. Chapter 1

**Saeva Abyssi: Chapter1**

 **996.M41**

The alarm was a cacophonous wail cutting into the ears of every man who heard it. It shrieked on and off, over and over filling the bridge with a sense of urgent danger and peril. The long nave of the bridge was choked with bodies of men, tripping over each other as they sought to do their duties but only managing to get in each other's way. Men in the blue tunics of Chapter Serfs raced to their stations and hastily took up their posts, trying to understand the threat approaching them

At one end of the bridge was an elevated command dais, surrounded by a recently installed railing. Standing upon that dais was a Space Marine in the blue and grey livery of the Storm Heralds Chapter, one whose face was lit by a red augmetic eye and boasted twin diagonal scars upon his cheeks. At his belt hung a Relic blade while his armour bore a golden chain of rank and a long red cloak, his name was Toran, Captain of the Third Company and he was yelling, "Situation report!"

From the Sensorium station Brother Persion replied shouting to be heard over the din of the alarm, "Auspex detects hostile Strike Craft inbound on an attack run!"

Toran looked at the Strategic Hololith projection over his head and saw the red icons of enemies closing fast, he assessed the situation and ordered, "Helm come to starboard, present weapon batteries."

"Aye, aye Captain" called Sergeant Furion from the helm as he attempted to direct the serfs to enact the order. Sadly he was stymied by the confusion all around and the serfs were slow to comply. There was a heavy stomp as Chaplain Wrethan approached, his black armour and skull mask bestowing a fearsome visage as he bellowed angrily at the serfs, "Move it you dogs, you should have been at your posts a full minute ago! Any man not at his post in ten seconds will be flogged!"

The crew rushed to obey and slowly the ship came to order, Serfs finally getting themselves in gear. Toran gritted his teeth at the delay but Chaplain Wrethan was haranguing them already and he could only make things worse. Finally the ship came to its new course and Toran called, "Gunnery officers, prepare a broadside to scatter the Hostiles. Ordnance, where the hell are my Thunderhawks?"

From the Ordnance pulpit Novak, the Company Champion called, "Second and Third squadrons will launch in thirty seconds!"

Wrethan growled loudly, "Too slow, too damned slow."

Toran saw that he was right, the Thunderhawks were launching too late to intercept the attackers, their acceleration would not match the hostiles in time to prevent the attack run. Toran called, "Theres not enough time, gunnery open fire now."

Amongst the gunnery pews Brother Jediah had a predatory glint in his eye as he yelled, "Shooting now."

The Hololith lit up as the ship's guns opened fire, flinging waves of las, missiles and plasma into the void. It was a potent broadside, able to gut a frigate but the targets were miniscule and began dodging and weaving in random patterns. The Hololith flared red as a region of space was engulfed in explosions but the tiny little strike craft flittered between blasts and emerged totally unscathed. Toran gritted his teeth and forced himself not to show his irritation, the chances of ship-killing weapons hitting diminutive strike craft had always been low.

Brother Persion called, "Hostiles are commencing their attack run now!"

Toran roared over the alarm, "Point defence turrets, why aren't they firing?!"

From the Engineerium pit Brother Bylan called in the harsh rasp of Augmetic implants, "+Sir, the gunners are having trouble coordinating their shooting solutions +"

Toran barked, "Fire anyway!"

Toran watched as the Hololith shrank to encompass the immediate space around his ship and he saw the tiny tracers of the close defence guns rising into space. Instantly he could see that the patterns were too broad and widely spaced, each turret firing individually and not creating the web of death they desperately needed. The hostiles easily evaded the incoming fire and swooped down upon the ship with weapons building in power. Persion cried, "Incoming, Incoming!" as the Hololith blazed with the icons of unleashed Turbolasers and waves of wing mounted missiles leaping forth. Multitudes of screens around the bridge flashed red as damage was registered and Brother Bylan called, "+Multiple hits, massive damage to the dorsal compartments, estimated repair times two weeks+"

Toran sighed and ran a hand over his face and then he drew himself up and said, "Alright, that's enough, let's call it off. All hands back to stand-by posts, reset Logic Engines and somebody cut off that damned alarm."

Quiet descended on the bridge and after a minute Chaplain Wrethan called, "All stations report stand-by condition, simulation terminated, I repeat simulation terminated."

Toran nodded as he received the report and said, "Well that was hardly our finest moment, we just broke the Chapter's newest ship. We will just have to keep trying until we get this right. Reset all posts and somebody contact First Squadron, pass on our compliments on a perfect attack run. Have them come in to refuel and have their Thunderhawk's Turbolasers blessed and consecrated. Second Squadron can be the hostiles next time."

The crowds of Serfs milled about, looking dejected and disheartened as they shuffled back to their original posts. Toran let them move for a moment, then stepped off the dais calling out "Brothers, a word." The various Space Marines came together and followed Toran as he wandered up the length of the bridge. It was a curiously clean space, lacking the ornamentation and history common to Astartes vessels. There were no murals of famous victories, no banners of glorious triumphs or inscriptions of traditional litanies, only a freshly-painted Aquilla overhead to honour Him on Terra. Everything about this space screamed its unbloodied nature, its virgin status and lack of history. Toran came to halt before the great Oculus, which was slowly opening as the armoured louvres peeled back. Revealed beyond was the kilometres long length of the ship, Thunderchild, the Storm Heralds Chapter's newest acquisition. It was enormous, dwarfing a Strike Cruiser yet at the same time it was sleek and fast, able to easily outpace a Battlebarge. In every way it was a unique vessel, unlike anything else in the galaxy, which unfortunately was proving to be quite a problem.

Toran looked out across the Thunderchild's length, taking in its spinal battlements and rows of guns, glinting greenly under the reflected light of a Gas Giant. His eyes rose up to take in that immense planet, seeing the thick bands of hydrogen clouds and swirling storms below and the distant glint of orbiting moons. This was Astu, the sole planet of this stellar system, a rich Imperial world famed for its cloud-scoop harvesting operations and the numerous Agri-dome farms that bedecked its moons. It had also been chosen to be the Chapter's proving grounds for its new ship, a supposedly quick and easy mission that was in fact turning out to be anything but quick or easy.

The various Brothers gathered around Captain Toran and he said softly so the Serfs wouldn't hear, "Well, what shall we make of this?"

Wrethan went first saying, "This was an absolute mess, the Serfs were tripping over each other's feet. It took eleven minutes and three seconds for the ship to come to battle stations, which is totally unacceptable."

Persion shook his head and said, "In the Imperial Navy anything under twelve minutes is considered a good time for a ship of this displacement."

Wrethan countered, "This is not the Navy, we are Astartes. Excellence is not optional, it is mandatory. We will have to drill the serfs over and over, I will not be satisfied until the clock comes in at under ten minutes."

Furion spoke up to say, "These are not raw recruits, these are seasoned void-farers drawn from the Chapter's fleet. The problem stems from the ship itself, her systems are unfamiliar and that causes delays and confusion. Her Spirit has also yet to make itself known and that unsettles the crew, void-farers are a superstitious lot. We simply need more time to form proper routines and practice our drills."

Toran shook his head, and said, "Time is one thing we don't have, Chapter Master Gorgall granted us three months for this shake-down cruise and we are already half-way through that."

Jediah interjected, "We can't wait forever, war rages across the galaxy and a Battle Company is an asset the Chapter cannot afford to have out of action for long."

Furion sighed and said, "The Thunderchild is not ready for battle and neither is her crew."

Novak said, "They better get ready, we will be called back to the fight before long."

Toran remarked, "What we really need is a victory, an easy victory. Something to put steel into the crew's spines and unite them as one body of men."

Persion commented, "It would help if the Tech-Adepts would show their faces, where are Magos Castabore and Techmarine Hevostan?"

Bylan answered, "+Castabore is locked away in her chambers, she still thinks that she can get those wretched Reflex Shields working. As for Hevostan he is in the Engineerium again, tending to Plasma-Reactor eight+"

That brought loud groans of frustration from all and Novak said in exasperation, "Number eight again?! What is it with that one, how many times has it refused to awaken? I've never heard of such a cantankerous and tetchy Machine Spirit, it's as stubborn as an Onager.

Jediah agreed saying, "We already have serious power issues, every time we push the drives hard we loose shield power. The Cogboys should just rip out that accursed reactor out and replace it."

"Careful," cautioned Toran, "The mysteries of the Omnissiah are not ours to know, but I'm sure Hevostan knows what he is doing. Doubtless he will keep performing the proper Blessings of Appeasement and Sacred Masses until he calms the reactor's Spirit. The question is what are we are going to do about the crew."

Wrethan said, "Drill them again and again until they get it right."

Furion countered though, "It won't help, they are only mortals and we've been running them ragged. Tiredness leads to mistakes and they haven't had a bit of rest for weeks."

Wrethan snorted contemptuously at the frailties of men but it was Persion who said, "There are other issues, Third Company is going stir-crazy below decks with nothing to do. They crave a taste of the action."

Toran knew how they felt and said, "Yes Space Marines are not built for peace, we should provide them with something strenuous to keep them occupied. Whilst we train, the Serfs can stand down and recuperate. Go tell the crew to start resting by shifts while I contact Mylos, Matheus, Lorath, Zeax and the other Sergeants; they will leap at the chance for some counter-boarding drills."

Persion commented, "Good, I could use something to hit, Lorath's thick skull will do nicely."

There were chuckles from the gathered Marines and Toran waved them back to their posts. He watched them go and appreciated their simple camaraderie. Then he turned and looked out of the Oculus at the distant stars and he wondered where war would take them next and if this ship would be ready to face it in time.

...

Far away in the cold depths of the void something stirred, the slightest twisting of the stars in a bare and unremarkable part of space. Unseen and unwitnessed a shimmering distortion came into being, the smallest blip in reality that hinted of a confluence of the mundane with a Labyrinthine dimension, creating a portal where none should exist. There was no great ripping of space, no screaming of Daemons as reality was torn asunder to allow wallowing barges to break back into Realspace. The universe merely blinked and seven dark shapes were suddenly present where none were before.

The intruders immediately spread dark wings out from their hulls, drinking in the distant starlight and then with a speed no Imperial vessel could match they darted away. They were on the hunt and they were confident that their prey would never see them coming.


	2. Chapter 2

**Saeva Abyssi: Chapter 2**

Space shimmered in distortion, a twisting and writhing curl of darkness that moved as a living thing. It was a dark haze, spreading across the stars like an oil slick on water and just as unnatural. The distortion glided past Imperial listening posts and auspex arrays without comment, not one blank-faced Servitor so much as twitching as it glided by. Unseen and unheralded the shimmer slipped deeper into the system, closing on a green gas giant, one spotted with fierce storms and encircled by orbiting moons.

Behind the shimmer cruised a formation of narrow dagger like craft, each one a hooked blade stained with the blood of its victims. Their hulls curved and swelled in flowing lines, completely at odds with brute human engineering and there was no blazing trail of plasma exhaust from gaping thrusters. Instead they slipped through space as gracefully as a fish in water, the merest twitch of their solar sails propelling them at speeds no Imperial ship could dream of matching. Among the formation there were four tiny little craft, mere poisoned darts flying free on black wings. Behind them followed three larger vessels, each one a deadly razor blade covered in dark runes and icons of pain and depravity. Their hulls bore potent laser-based weapon batteries and deadly Phantom Lances while they had Impaler assault boats cunningly concealed along their flanks. These vessels were born hunters and together they closed upon their prey, the thrill of anticipation thrumming through them as a psychic resonance.

The ships were sleek and deadly killers but they were also far more than mere warships, they were twisted works of art, inglorious slave-barges and hideous torture chambers all in one. Deep within their bowels the shrieks and cries of the damned never ceased, the sounds of pain and torment filling the air every hour of every day. To be captured and confined on a vessel such as this was to be sentenced to a fate worse than death, for the crew would never allow any morsel to die until they had wrung out every last drop of pain. Only when every single tear had been shed would they discard the bloodied remains and move onto fresh meat.

The largest ship of the formation was also the grandest, a floating palace set among the stars. Her name was unpronounceable by human tongues but the closest translation would be 'Rapture of Excruciation'. She was an ancient and blood-soaked killer, that had seen countless worlds burn and every inch of her had been sculpted by hands skilled in ways humans would never understand. Her bridge was a somewhat small place compared to Imperial designs, but graceful too, with not straight or inelegant line to it. Every inch of the place was both beautifully alluring and sickeningly repellent at the same time, a macabre artwork built out of stone and bone. Walls were smeared with blood and skin was stretched over wraithbone frames like the finest gossamer veils.

Her crew were stood at their posts with rapt attention, controlling the ship not with crude buttons and dials but via direct psychic manipulation. It was a two-way process, their minds infused the ship, making it act as a living thing, while at the same time they drank of the pain flowing through her decks in a perfect symmetry. Yet there was one thing present that stood out, a strange crustacean-like creature that was suspended from the roof on barbed chains. It hung there, quivering and convulsing as strange devices attached to its form did incomprehensible things to whatever passed for its nervous system.

Sitting in the middle of the bridge was a single being, a svelte and lithe figure wrapped in elegant robes and with a leering grin upon his face. His name was Athra J'rect and he was commander of this fleet, Archon of the Impaled Heart Kabal and a Lord of Commorragh, a title to be feared among the Dark Eldar. Athra J'rect was surveying his bridge with a wary eye, checking the crew were all in their places. He inspected his servants with a cautious glance, knowing that each and every one of them was plotting his downfall. This was only natural for the Dark Eldar, respect and admiration were foreign concepts to them, in Commarragh there was only fear and desire. Athra however was confident that he was currently safe, his star was in the ascendant and all present knew his death would lead to a bloodbath as claimants fought for the reins of power. An Eldar was a cunning creature at heart and none would strike until they were confident of winning the resulting struggle.

Still there was always some fool willing to try their luck and for this reason Athra kept his bodyguard close at all times. Dramaq was a fearsome sight in his jagged armour, bearing a two-handed Klaive blade and a suspicious mien at all times. Dramaq was an Incubus, a supremely skilled killer bought and paid for by Athra at exorbitant cost. It was worth every slave though, for the Order of the Incubus could not be bribed or turned, once a contract was sealed their loyalty was absolute: a priceless and unique asset among the Dark Eldar. Athra turned his attention away from the bridge and inspected the chained creature dangling above his head, a Saruthi, a rare and exotic breed from the squalid wildernesses of the galaxy. It had been meticulously worked over by his allied Haemonculi Vl'hyas, its strange pain centres manipulated by eldritch devices to stimulate a symphony of alien agony. Athra felt the pain as a balm upon his soul, like delicate music in his ears or the finest of vintages upon his tongue.

The Archon reflected that this was what set him apart from his kin in Commorragh, like all Dark Eldar he needed the torment of others to prevent his soul being devoured by She Who Thirsts, but his senses were more refined and cultured. The other lords were gluttons, gorging themselves on pain wherever it presented itself, shovelling down whatever they could in a frenzy of excess. Athra however was more of an epicurean, sampling rare and delightful torments like a connoisseur. Unlike his kin Athra could set aside a banal morsel in favour of a surpassing delicacy later on, savouring the anticipation of the banquet to come. True this attitude had cost him in the past, both in power and respect, but now his star was rising and none would dare criticise his eccentricities.

Athra was stirred from his reflections by the heavy, brutish clump of armoured feet behind him. He glanced about and saw four bulky and primitive silhouettes entering the bridge, each one a hulking ogre clad in ugly slabs of Ceramite. The crew bristled at their presence but Athra held up a hand to sign the fifth article of hospitality, his fingers twitching with a sarcastic motion to indicate that these guests should have no idea of the mocking contempt the host held them in. The leader of the quartet stank of soured, warp tainted psychic might, he had a helm with four horns and he bore a staff with a three-headed snake. His name was Beta and he was a Chaos Sorcerer, leader of this cell of the Alpha Legion and the one who had made all this possible. Beta stopped before Athra and made a clumsy attempt at the first greeting of welcome.

Athra let him bow for a moment and then said in coarse High Gothic, "Welcome Beta, I trust you are making yourself comfortable in your quarters."

Beta was clearly suspicious but answered, "Yes indeed, quite comfortable. Gamma, Delta and Epsilon here were just saying how much they enjoyed your accommodations"

Athra saw the three others bristle at the sarcastic remark, especially that brute Gamma who was staring at Dramaq quite rudely as he kneaded the haft of a double-headed axe. Athra enjoyed the tension in the air as he said, "I presume you have come to check on our progress?"

Beta inclined his head, making his four horns sway as he replied, "Yes, is the target in sight?"

Athra sent a psychic impulse and an image appeared overhead, projected onto a screen of tanned skin. In the display was a green gas giant, shimmering with reflected sunlight and glowing like an emerald. Athra said, "We close swiftly, the Mon-Keigh vessel will soon be within our sights."

Beta looked up and said, "And the Imperials have no idea that we are here?"

Athra laughed and replied mockingly, "Crude Mon-Keigh technology penetrate our Shadow-Fields? You make me laugh, dear friend."

Beta either did not catch the condescension in his tone or chose to ignore it as he replied, "Good, good I long to see the Storm Heralds destroyed."

Beta thought he was subtle, but he was not. Athra could tell that Beta cared nothing for the Storm Heralds, not even enough to genuinely hate them. The Sorcerer was only here as a step upon the road to another goal, the imperative to come and destroy this one Mon-Keigh vessel had arisen from another.

Athra opened his arms and said, "And where is our other lovely guest? Did not T'selia see fit to come to witness this glorious day?"

Beta flinched slightly at the mention of the name, a fact that Athra stored away for later. The Sorcerer cautiously replied, "The Farseer remains locked in her quarters, she will emerge in the fullness of time."

Athra nodded in apparent acceptance as he thought of the strange visitor, a Farseer of the Craftworlds. She had approached Athra with the desperate need to kill one particular Mon-Keigh and it was her will that had brought them here. Athra indulged her compulsion, partly because he wanted revenge on this particular animal for previous scars but mostly as a move in a larger game.

T'selia was a prize beyond compare among the Dark Eldar, their Craftworld kin capable of suffering on a level most creatures could not comprehend. Athra knew every member of his crew longed to capture her and inflict the most horrific of tortures on her delicate flesh but he had loftier goals in mind. The Farseer had revealed a darkness within her spirit, a rage and bitterness that could not be controlled and Athra was giddy at the prospects that such a flaw created.

Suddenly the brute Gamma spoke up to bark in a vulgar tongue, "You haven't explained how we are going to go about this, how will your flimsy little ships take down a lapdog Battleship?"

Athra sneered at the brute, "If you had doubts then maybe you should have brought one of your own ships instead."

Beta spread his hands and said, "How could we when you would not tell us our destination?"

Athra smiled at the knowledge that his vulgar guests were isolated and trapped on his ship but replied, "It does not matter, we have more than enough strength here to finish the job."

Gamma growled like a rabid dog, "But how?"

Athra's smile widened and he said, "Let me show you."

The slightest psychic impulse sent his bridge crew into action and they hurriedly began altering the ship's systems. Lights dimmed as power shifted and the aura of the atmosphere trembled with energy as arcane devices went into effect. Beta looked confused and said, "What just happened?"

Athra blinked and the image overhead twisted, becoming a display of the Dark Eldar fleet, only now they weren't Commorraghite vessels at all. Now the display was of a formation of brutal slab-sided ships, all armoured buttresses, squat spinal towers and row after row of primitive gun batteries, an Imperial Naval squadron on patrol.

Athra settled back and said, "What you are witnessing are Mimic Engines at work, don't try to understand their operation, it's quite beyond your intellectual reach."

Beta looked up at the faux Imperial ships, seeing every line and spar in perfect alignment and said, "Not bad, but will this fool the loyalist lapdogs?"

Athra replied confidently "Oh yes indeed, all the Mon-Keigh will see are good friends coming to call. By the time their primitive minds realise something is wrong we will be in position to obliterate them with one shot. The shock they experience will be quite delightful, it's only a shame that it will be so brief before they die."


	3. Chapter 3

**Saeva Abyssi Chapter 3**

Toran was breathing hard, gasping for air as his body sought to restore its equilibrium. His multi-lung was fully engaged and his second heart thundered in his chest for he had been fighting hard for hours, at a pace that would have certainly killed a mortal man. His face was flushed beneath his helm but still felt a triumphant grin creeping onto his face as he levelled his Relic blade at his defeated opponent. Sprawled on the deck before him was a Transhuman warrior, in battered armour, laid prone by Toran's last blow. The Captain laid his sword across the neck of his enemy and growled, "You are a dead man."

The defeated warrior raised his twin lightning claws and said, "At least I die in battle."

Toran replied, "Well that's good, I would hate to have to report that you died because a rock fell upon that thick skull of yours."

From the deck Sergeant Lorath chuckled and lifted his hands to pull off his helm saying, "Another worthy victory Captain Toran, yet again the heroes of Blue team have defended the ship from the vile boarders of Red team."

Toran laughed as he sheathed his sword and then reached up to pull free his own helm, revealing his scarred face and augmetic eye. The Captain took in a breath of smoke-filled air and heard the sounds of combat fading away as the Red team were beaten soundly into submission. He glanced at Lorath and said, "That's five victories out of five matches, I trust you are not going easy on me just because I am your Captain?"

From behind them a voice spoke up, it was Persion and he was picking himself up off the deck as he said, "Trust me Captain, Lorath is not one to pull his punches." Toran saw him reach down and pull free a short dirk that was embedded in his side and immediately Larraman cells welled up to clot the wound in seconds. Toran was not shocked by the injury, training exercises may be fought with dulled blades and inert bolt rounds but they were utterly ferocious nonetheless. For an Astartes to fight with anything less than absolute commitment was an alien concept, if training held no risk or danger then what would be the point of it?

Lorath was working a crick out of his neck and said, "Seriously Sir, you have been fighting extremely well these last few days. I would swear your swordwork is improving."

Toran replied, "I confess I have taken to duelling with Novak recently, sharpening my skills."

Lorath asked, "Going for the title of Chapter Champion are you?"

"No," commented Persion dryly, "He merely got fed up with every passing Warlord battering him senseless; he said he had decided to do something about it."

Lorath rubbed a sore jaw and remarked, "Well it's working, I couldn't lay a finger on you."

"Come on," said Toran with a smile, " Let's find the rest of this sorry lot."

The three of them gathered themselves together and set off, wandering down a narrow corridor as they headed towards the noise of the company. Toran glanced at his companions and was glad to see Lorath in such fine spirits. Once the brusque warrior would have been sent into a monumental brood by repeated defeats but he seemed to be taking it in his stride. When Toran had met him Lorath had been a Terminator, a great honour to be sure but that was as far as he had been set to rise. Lorath was not one to concern himself with morale, preferring simply to get on with things; unfortunately the Masters had believed that this made him unfit to be a Sergeant. Toran however had felt differently and in a time of desperate need had promoted him. The warrior had taken to the role with gusto and his impatient, no-nonsense style had proved perfect for an Assault Squad leader, now he was one of Toran's most ardent followers.

The three of them soon exited the corridor emerging into a large, vaulted space at least a couple of miles long. This was the Thunderchild's training deck, a facility capable of recreating almost any environment and conditions. Currently it was configured to recreate the interior of a starship, laying a warren of overlapping tubes over and upon one another like a beehive. It seemed odd to have a recreation starship inside a starship, but training was hard on any environment and a void-faring vessel had too many important mechanisms for them to risk drilling in working spaces.

Toran saw lines of Space Marines emerging from various openings in the recreation and blank-faced Servitors trundling forward with tools raised. It would take several hours to restore the damage to the false environment before they could go again. Toran looked over his Company, many with red stripes upon their helms and saw that they were in good spirits, laughing and applauding each other's performance. It helped that he and Lorath had swapped up their teams after each exercise, so that not one squad felt like it was being dishonoured. They watched as Apothecary Memnos moved to assist several injured Battle-Brothers, haranguing them when they tried to pass off their wounds as mere annoyances. Meanwhile Chaplain Wrethan was marching up and down offering equal parts praise and criticism to various initiates, his harsh mask slipping a little to reveal a more thoughtful side as he talked to a Brother having trouble standing on a mangled leg.

Persion sighed and said, "It was good to stretch ourselves, a shame Furion had to miss it."

Toran commented, "Somebody had to stand watch on the bridge."

Persion quipped, "Well it's not like the old man could keep up anyway, he needs his sleep."

Toran replied with a straight face, "I don't know what you're grinning about; you will be taking the next watch."

Persion's face fell as Toran turned to Lorath saying, "Tell Chaplain Wrethan to take over Blue team and set up for the next match."

Lorath replied curiously, "You're not staying?"

Toran answered "No, Hevostan requested my presence in the Engineerium, he said it was a matter of great importance."

Lorath nodded and said, "Go tend to the mysteries of the Omnissiah; we can carry on without you."

Toran turned to leave and as he did so he heard Persion remark, "Cheer up Lorath, perhaps Red team will actually stand a chance now."

The Captain grinned to himself as he left and took an exit that descended to one of the ship's internal transit tubes. He summoned a conveyance and embarked the small capsule before it whisked him away. The capsule accelerated hard, covering a distance in minutes that he would have taken hours to walk. The capsule sped through compartment after compartment, most of which he had never seen. A Captain should know his ship, but Imperial vessels were the size of cities, Toran could spend his whole life touring the ship and still not see everything. As he travelled deeper into the ship Toran reflected for a moment. The Chapter's newest ship was a great asset but it certainly having teething trouble and he was unsure how she would fare in combat. The crew seemed to be benefitting from some downtime and the technical difficulties would be overcome, but more concerning was that the ship seemed reluctant to reveal its Spirit. Every Imperial vessel had a unique character, stalwart or fierce, sly or zealous but this ship had yet to reveal her character and he knew only true combat would reveal her nature.

Swiftly the capsule took him to the Engineerium and Toran alighted outside its great doors, he was clearly expected for the guardian turrets did not stir nor did the many Gun-Servitors so much as twitch. Toran marched past them all and strode through the soaring doors, which were large enough to permit a Warhound Titan to pass. He entered a vast space, dwarfing anything else on the ship and looked upon the beating heart of the Thunderchild.

The compartment was filled with gargantuan machinery, looming so high that the tops were lost in darkness and so broad that they made the space seem cramped. Everywhere Serfs and Engineseers laboured over arcane tasks while teams of men dragged machinery into place with long chains. Sparks flew from every corner as arcs of lightning earthed themselves in bronze rods and the flashing lights etched shadows into the walls. The noise was staggering, filling the space with a cacophony of shouting, banging and hammering all mixed with the endless chants of Tech-Priests marching by with smoking braziers of blessed incense swinging to and fro.

Toran spied a hint of red armour and strode over, seeing Techmarine Hevostan arguing with a Tech-Priest half his size. Despite the din Hevostan seemed to hear Toran's approach and cut off his argument as he faced the Captain. Toran took in the strange sight of his Brother, the servant of both the Emperor and the Omnissiah, covered in the iconography of Mars and bearing a servo claw over one shoulder. Hevostan saluted with the Sign of the Cog and said over the noise, "Captain, thank you for coming."

Toran nodded respectfully and replied amid the din,"Your missive sounded most urgent."

Hevostan replied, "Yes, I need your authorisation on a sensitive matter, it concerns Plasma-Reactor Eight here."

Toran looked up at the towering machine behind Hevostan, a squat and rotund device filling the space. It was simply immense, curving outwards in a bloated fashion and covered in protruding pipes and cables like a cactus. Standing beneath it made one feel insignificant and unworthy, like a mouse before a lion and it was humbling to remember that it was just one of eight such devices in the chamber. Toran considered this for a moment and then said, "Still having problems?"

Hevostan replied, "Yes, its Spirit is most unbecoming for such a sacred device, the Machine spurns our humble offerings and refuses to awaken. The crew are growing fearful, they whisper number eight is jinked or even cursed. I have tried every binary psalm and maintenance check I know and it still will not comply. Therefore I need your permission to perform the Rite of Final Entreaty."

Toran frowned and said, "I am not familiar with that Sacrament."

Hevostan drew in a sad breath and said, "It is rarely performed for it is considered a last resort among my order. If the Rite does not satisfy the Machine's Spirit then it is considered that the Omnissiah has withdrawn his favour from it."

Toran knew enough to realise this was a grim idea for the Tech-Adept and he said, "That sounds extreme, are there no other options? Perhaps Magos Castabore could lend her aid…"

"Castabore!" spat Hevostan tetchily, "She ignores her sacred observances in favour of theoretical research. Her obsession with those miserable Reflex Shields consumes her thoughts."

Toran felt the need to defend her and said, "If she can complete her work then they could be a great boon. The ability to make a ship disappear from enemy auspex's would be a huge tactical advantage."

Hevostan shook his head, "They may sound impressive but the process involved is trickier than balancing quantum field variances. She is engaged on a gremlin chase and is going in circles, I doubt she will ever find the answer she seeks."

Toran saw that this was going to become an argument and decided to get back on point. He declared, "Well either way the Thunderchild suffers for running on only seven reactors, we need a decision about number eight. Perform your ritual, if you can appease its Spirit then all will be well, if not then we must decommission and replace the unit when we return to Lujan II."

Hevostan did not sound pleased as he said, "That will be a lengthy process in itself, we may have to consider…"

His sentence was cut off when suddenly the vox crackled and Furion's voice came through saying, "Bridge to Captain Toran, come in Captain Toran."

Toran blinked at the interruption and quickly opened a link saying, "Bridge this is Toran, report."

Furion said, "Sir, you need to come to the bridge at once, we have vessels on approach."

Toran frowned and asked, "Hostiles?"

Furion answered, "Far from it, it's an Imperial Navy patrol and it's being led by the Averof."

Toran smiled at the pronouncement and he said, "The Averof? That is good news, I will be there shortly."

He turned to face Hevostan and said, "Continue your work, I must depart immediately. We must prepare a warm welcome for our guests; I confess that I am looking forward to seeing Captain Mandas once more."


	4. Chapter 4

**Saeva Abyssi Chapter 4**

The bridge of the Thunderchild was never quiet, there was always activity going on at any given moment. And yet this shift was about as quiet as it ever got, crewmen executing their duties in a relaxed atmosphere, taking their time to check their work rather than performing it in a frantic rush. The scene was tinted mint-green by reflected light coming off the gas giant Astu, pouring in through the Oculus like an emerald sunrise. Standing on the command dais was a Space Marine in brutal Mark III Iron armour, it was Sergeant Furion and he was directing the Serfs in a calm, measured tone of voice. Into this arena wandered Captain Toran, passing a Serfs armsman who cried aloud, "Captain on the Bridge!"

Furion saw the Captain coming and hopped off the dais, striding over to meet him under the glimmering Hololith projection. Toran looked about and remarked, "What's going on then?"

Furion replied, "We detected a squadron of ships five light-minutes out, just entering Auspex range. I recognise the engine signatures of the lead ship, it's the Averof."

Toran commented, "That's Captain Mandas' ship, we haven't seen him since we gave the Tyranids a drubbing at Angle's Redoubt."

Furion said, "Yes, it would be good to see the old void dog again."

Toran called over to the communication station, "Hail the Captain of the Averof, send him our regards."

The serfs hastened to obey but at this range it would take several minutes for a vox signal to travel that far and then return. As they waited Toran examined the auspex feeds and saw the energy signatures of an Imperial cruiser and half a dozen escorts, a sizeable patrol in force. Toran mused, "I wasn't expecting to see the Navy here, there were no dispatches of patrols in this system."

Furion remarked, "They're not just passing by either, their course is a direct intercept to our position. They came looking for us."

Something about that statement tickled Toran's subconscious but he dismissed it. Mandas was an old friend and ally, he could be trusted. Toran said, "It's probably just that their Astropathic message was lost, you know how fickle the Warp is."

Furion's reply was cut off by a clatter of armoured feet and Toran glanced behind to see his Command Squad approaching. Persion, Novak, Bylan and Jediah following Chaplain Wrethan onto the bridge. He raised an eyebrow, expecting them to provide some paltry excuse for them to come nosing about but Novak blurted out, "What's this we hear about Mandas coming to call?"

Toran shook his head at his glib Champion's irrepressible tongue and called back, "Yes, we've picked up the Averof; the good Captain is paying us a visit."

Persion wandered up and said, "We should have him over for dinner, it's our turn after all."

"Not a bad idea," Toran mused then called, "Communications, signal the Averof and invite her Captain to a feast in his honour."

Novak muttered, "We'd better break out the good rations, I doubt he'd appreciate a nourishing bowl of synthi-gruel."

Jediah snorted and remarked, "Our armour-repair paste tastes better."

Everybody chuckled at the old, old joke about the tailored, chemically-rich rations served to the Astartes. Toran was about to reply when a communications Serf stood up and called, "My lords, we can't raise the Averof's commander. All we are getting are standard hails."

Toran frowned as a nagging itch formed in his mind and he ordered, "Give me a visual."

The Hololith shimmered and reset as an image of the incoming fleet of vessels coalesced. At their heart cruised a giant warship, all flying buttresses, an armoured prow and massive guns: an Imperial Lunar class cruiser. Bylan said, "+That's the Averof alright, I'd recognise her pennants anywhere+"

Toran looked upon it and saw the familiar lines and signal markers of the great ship. It was closing into real-time communications range and should be calling out in greeting but there was nothing. Toran's trigger finger was itching now, never a good sign but he could see nothing wrong, save her silence all was well.

Toran muttered, "This isn't like Mandas, why isn't he answering?"

Novak said, "You don't think he's been replaced do you?"

"Never, he loves that ship too much," declared Wrethan firmly, "The only way he's ever departing that bridge is when they carry him out in his coffin."

Jediah growled, "Maybe he didn't have a choice, the Inquisition is always plotting some scheme or another."

Toran stared into the Hololithic image as his trigger finger itched furiously. A tiny part of his mind was screaming for him to be wary but for the life of him he couldn't articulate why. Everything was normal, all hails and authentication protocols perfect in every detail. He should be welcoming the sight of the Imperial fleet, so why was it making his hackles rise? He tried to shake it off, to tell himself it was just a communications break down but just couldn't make himself believe it. His eyes kept being drawn back to the visual display, poring over the details and seeing a perfectly normal image. And yet every time his eyes swept the Averof's lines his nagging unease flared and his trigger finger itched frantically. He felt torn in two, his eyes telling him that all was routine while his subconscious screamed that something was off, but he just couldn't fathom what it was that was making him feel this way.

Bylan was also peering at the image in the Hololith and he said, "+You know those shipwrights really can do excellent work+"

Novak looked puzzled and said, "What do you mean?"

Bylan explained, "+Well I saw the Averof take heavy damage at the Battle of Angle's Redoubt only a year ago, but she looks like she's in perfect condition+"

That remark made the hairs on the back of Toran's neck stand up and his nagging itch flared into outright suspicion. He stared at the Hololithic image and saw that the young Standard Bearer was right; the Averof was in a perfect state of repair. Toran had seen that ship in battle and knew her scars as well as his own, a record of every scrap she had been in, as individual as fingerprints. This ship was indeed scarred, in fact there were signs of old battles all over the hull, but the patterns were completely wrong. Toran realised that this ship was not the Averof, it could not be and that meant it had to be someone else. Barely had the thought formed in his mind when Toran was yelling, "Sound general quarters, all hands to action stations! Rouse the ship's Spirit for war and raise the shields!"

The whole bridge started in surprise, everybody looking at Toran as if he had gone mad but the Captain roared, "Now!" The whole bridge descended into a mad scrum of jostling men as Chaplain Wrethan moved up and down the nave bellowing, "Move it you dogs, the order is given! I expect you to be ready in less than ten minutes and the clock is already running!"

Panic erupted as the crew scrambled to respond and a fierce alarm started blaring, one that rang throughout the whole ship over and over to alert the crew. Serfs started pouring in through the main hatch and rushed to their posts, racing to get into position. Meanwhile teams of armsmen took up positions outside the hatch and the armoured louvres slid shut over the Oculus. It was a scene Toran knew would be repeated throughout the ship, crewmen fighting to awaken dormant systems and secure blast hatches while others fought to load guns and fuel Thunderhawks. Even now the Tech-Priests would be blessing the reactors and Void shield generators, performing ancient rituals from the dawn of the Imperium to stir their Machine Spirits into a state of eagerness.

While all this was happening Toran mounted the command dais and his command squad spread out to their various positions: Furion took the helm, Novak the Ordnance, Jediah the guns, Bylan the Engineerium and Persion stood by the Sensorium. As the ship slowly stirred to its peak alert level Furion opened a vox link so the serfs wouldn't hear and he called, "Captain, what's going on?"

Toran answered him, "That ship is not the Averof."

Persion butted in saying, "Not the Averof… but all the signals and identifications match perfectly."

Toran replied, "Trust me, someone is trying to trick us."

Novak sounded confused and said, "But if that is not Mandas then who is it?"

Jediah spat from his post, "I bet it's that Inquisitor Zerban, who else would have the authority to duplicate Imperial Naval signals. I knew we hadn't seen the last of that vermin."

Toran cautioned him, "We know nothing for sure, save that deceit is in the air. Let us be prepared to meet it."

The minutes dragged by as the crew hastened to finish their preparations and Toran felt like he had a target painted upon his back with every second that crawled past. Then at last the various stations began sounding off, calling their readiness. The last to speak was Chaplain Wrethan who approached the command dais and said, "All hands report ready, the ship is at Battle Stations."

Toran glanced at him and said, "Time?"

Wrethan's fierce pride slipped past his usual mask of ire and he could not keep the approval from his voice as he reported, "Nine minutes and fifty-seven seconds."

Toran smiled despite the tense situation and called, "Well done men, you have done the Emperor proud this day. Now about our intruders, what are they doing?"

Persion called back, "Still closing, no direct communications yet."

Toran looked at the Hololith and ordered, "Send a challenge, warn them that they are approaching an armed vessel of the Adeptus Astartes. Tell them if they do not stand off immediately and provide proper authorization then they will be fired upon."

Persion bent over the communication posts but after a minute he stood up and said, "They are responding, they claim to have Inquisitorial authority to be here. They order us to stand down and lower our shields."

Toran's suspicions deepened and he said, "The Inquisition does not give orders to the Astartes. Let us remind them of that fact: ready gun batteries."

Jediah eagerly bent to his task but Furion said, "We are not really going to fire on the Inquisition are we?"

Toran reassured him, "A single shot across the bow ought to get our point across."

After a moment Jediah stood up and said, "Guns aligned."

Toran looked up at the Hololith and said, "Give them a shot, one gun only and make sure to miss by a wide margin."

Jediah only looked slightly disappointed but complied and there was the tiniest quiver in the deck as one of the port side's Macrocannons fired. A standard Mars IV pattern gun, it hurled a Kilotonne grade projectile out into space, travelling at stupendous speeds. Toran watched the round flash past the incoming fleet and warily awaited their response. Long seconds passed and absolutely nothing happened, seconds dragging by as the crew held their breaths in anxious anticipation. Toran felt an unaccustomed cold shiver run down his spine as he wondered what was going to happen but all he could do was wait. Suddenly and without warning the Hololith dissolved into static, breaking up into a harsh wash of disruption. Toran bellowed, "Sensorium, the auspex feed has failed, get it working again!"

But Persion called back, "It's not the Auspex, this is what's really happening out there."

Toran looked back and realised that behind the harsh distortions the stars were clear and perfectly focused. It was the ships themselves that were hazy and ill-defined, wavering like reflections cast upon water. Toran's trigger finger was itching furiously now but he did not know what to do as the strange phenomenon wavered before him. Then suddenly it snapped out of existence and where there had previously been a squadron of Imperial Navy vessels now there was a collection of far smaller and more alien craft. Toran gasped to see their dark, curving lines and jagged weapon arrays, all pointed at his ship. Novak sounded flabbergasted as he called, "Those aren't human, what the hell are they?"

Toran saw the ships breaking formation and dashing forward on an attack run as he yelled, "It's the Eldar!"


	5. Chapter 5

**Saeva Abyssi Chapter 5**

In the silence of the void the predators moved, slipping inexorably closer to their prey like a pack of wolves upon a lost lamb. They moved with eerie grace no Mon-Keigh vessel could match, confident that their Mimic Engines would fool the target. The false face of deception was a tactic they had honed to perfection and it was one that they had performed countless times before.

Aboard the Rapture of Excruciation Athra J'rect was lounging back in his throne, peering up at the display above him. Projected before him was the green gas giant and he was carefully examining it, like a jeweller would an uncut emerald. He was entranced by its bands of clouds, its swirling storms and multifaceted hues, with just a few specks of flaws hinting at mysterious objects in the depths. Just because he delighted in pain and suffering did not mean that he could not appreciate natural beauty and he mused that there was still splendour in the universe. A shame, he thought, that it was wasted on brutish primitives like Orks, Fraal, Tau and Mon-Keigh.

The thought of that brought Athra back to the present and he sent a psychic impulse to bring up a tactical display. Instantly a projection appeared before him, showing his fleet closing upon the Mon-Keigh scow, all alone and isolated. He knew that the sight of the vessel would be a disappointment, the Mon-Keigh junker would possess not a hint of elegance or taste. The only thing more depressing than Mon-Keigh boorishness was their monotonous repetition. One vessel being pretty much interchangeable with any other, much like the members of the race itself. They had long since lost any hint of original thought and only aped the designs of an earlier, slightly less crude age. Truly the entire species deserved to be ground under the heel of Commorragh, they almost made it too easy.

Athra sighed, "I am almost sorry for this."

Behind him Dramaq loomed in his thick armour and growled, "You pity the Mon-Keigh?"

Athra scowled in annoyance, pity was as foreign to an Archon as compassion or trust and he spat, "I meant that it will all be over so swiftly. I would have liked to have drawn out their deaths, to savour their despair when they realised our innate superiority."

Dramaq sounded dismissive as he said, "Dead is dead and a foe that yet breathes is still a threat."

Athra shook his head as he considered his bodyguard. Like all Dark Eldar an Incubus fed upon suffering but they seemed puzzlingly uninterested in it. Instead focussing upon honing their skills and seeking out the most exquisite of blows, the most impeccable of killing strikes. It was a strange attitude but Athra knew it was most useful, if the Mon-Keigh Gene-Bulks came within sword range Dramaq would slice them into ribbons. Athra toyed with the idea of letting the Gene-Bulks board his ship, just for the thrill of the fight but then he dismissed it. He hadn't lived this long by letting enemies get within striking distance, not when he could obliterate them from afar.

Athra turned and looked at his other enemies, the tainted gene-bulks standing at the back of the bridge. Their hefty plate quite spoiled the lovely lines of his ship and their rank stench filled the room with a sweaty tang. It was insulting to have them here, the only compensation the knowledge that they were trapped and cut off here with him. Athra wondered if the Mon-Keigh had any idea of how badly they stank to Eldar senses, the way their filthy bodies reeked of sweat and dirt. Then he laughed to himself, who cared what Mon-Keigh thought, the entire barbaric race was beneath his notice.

Athra was shaken from his musings when a crewman turned and addressed him, "Great Archon, there is an issue."

Athra glanced at the crewman's face, making a mental note to have him tortured later on for daring to bring bad news before his lord. Outwardly though he said, "What is it?"

The crewman answered, "We have sighted the Mon-Keigh junk-heap but we cannot identify it, it does not match our records."

Athra frowned at that and sent a psychic impulse to bring up a projected image. The screen responded, displaying the prey with perfect clarity but the sight made Athra start. It was typical of its brutish makers, being all heavy armour, hefty guns and ridiculously oversized thrusters, but it was also different too. In a long lifetime Athra had seen every type of vessel and craft in the galaxy, but this matched none that he had seen before. Could it be, had the Mon-Keigh made something original at last?

Athra turned and called, "Sorcerer, come look at this."

There was a heavy crump and Beta approached and said, "Yes, how may I be of service?"

Athra said, "What is this?"

Beta sneered and said, "Oh dear are you out of your depth? Let me help you."

Athra gritted his teeth and snarled, "Just tell me what you see."

Beta looked up and paused then after a moment said, "Yes I see, most unusual. It reminds me of the Rogue Trader Explorators we dispatched during the Great Crusade but one of a non-standard design. A shame you did not let me bring my Flagship, the Shadow would make short work of this ship."

Athra spat, "Well it is not here, can you at least find me a weak point?"

Beta turned and reached out for a rune on Athra's throne but before he could complete the gesture there was a blur and out of nowhere Dramaq appeared, his Klaive poised one millimetre from the Sorcerer's jugular. There was a rush of air and suddenly the one called Gamma was behind them, his axe resting on the back of Dramaq's neck. Athra was thrilled by the danger in the air, the threat making a delightful frisson on his tongue. He savoured the experience for a moment then said, "Now, now we are all friends here, let us not spoil things with vulgar bloodshed."

Everybody slowly lowered their blades, eyes promising retribution and reprisals at later dates. Beta rubbed his neck and called, "Epsilon is our tech-expert, let him take a look."

Another brutish Gene-bulk stepped up to a console and shouldered aside the operator, then he bent down and peered at a readout.

After a minute he stood up and said, "The design is non-standard, neither Battlebarge nor Strike Cruiser. Priority target is a Thunderhawk bay located under the ventral prow, cripple that and you should enjoy total Strike Craft supremacy."

The crew bristled to be given directions by a primitive but Athra waved them to obey saying, "Send the targeting data to the fleet, I want a staggered barrage of Phantom Lances from all craft. Tell them anyone who misses will spend an eternity in my torture gardens."

As the crew obeyed Athra turned to Beta and said, "The prey is idle and vulnerable, soon you will witness the power of a superior race." Beta didn't reply, merely looking up and waiting as the long minutes slid by and the fleet closed upon the Mon-Keigh junker. The target seemed blissfully unaware of the threat hiding behind the power of the Mimic Engines and victory seemed assured. But then there was a loud chime and Epsilon called, "Energy spike, they are raising shields!"

Beta sounded smug as he commented, "So much for the power of a superior race, it looks like you now have a serious challenge on your hands."

Athra however merely grinned and said, "No, now it gets fun."

The fleet continued to close, the Mon-Keigh scow growing in the display and then Epsilon called, "They are sending a challenge, they demand proper authorisation or they will open fire."

Beta replied, "Tell them that we are the Inquisition, that usually cows the Throne-Worshippers."

Epsilon sent the message but nothing happened. Then there was a flash of light and an alarm wailed as a single shot flew past their bow, a clear message in any language. Athra smirked at Beta's poorly hidden flash of trepidation and let the moment play out for a heartbeat longer. Then he was calling, "Disengage Mimic Engines and raise Shadow-fields. Dive the fleet, take us underneath them!"

In moments the Dark Eldar fleet emerged from their false seeming, shimmering with haze as they raised their protective distortion fields. Simultaneously they were pirouetting and diving downwards, dropping below the horizontal and exploiting the three-dimensional nature of space. The manoeuvre caught the prey off guard, no Mon-Keigh vessel could hope to dance through the void in such a manner. The Eldar glided past the waiting gun batteries with ease, skipping beneath the scow's hull with unnatural grace. It was like they were somehow flying in a vacuum, soaring on gusts of wind rather than brute thrust.

The craft dove beneath the target and before the junker could hope to respond they pulled up and rose vertically, darting straight at the slab-like hull. There was a shimmer of power and then a searing bright burst of energy signalled a Phantom Lance spearing right into the target's shields. Another and another and another shot out in a perfectly orchestrated sequence and the shields shimmered as they struggled to cope. Then there was an electro-static bang and the shields collapsed, letting a ravening beam tear into the hull. The blast struck directly into the open and exposed launch bay, cutting into it at an acute angle. There was a bloom of fire and then a fierce explosion as power conduits blew out and fuel bowsers detonated, filling the open bay with fire and debris. The Eldar however did not sit still to witness the results of their labour, instead breaking off and scattering in all directions before their victim could fight back.

On the bridge Athra was laughing in delight and called, "Tell me how they bleed!"

Epsilon spoke out to say, "Launch bay crippled, their craft are intact inside but have no way to exit."

Athra declared, "Good, now we can pick them apart with ease."

The display shimmered and Athra saw his fleet circling the Mon-Keigh scow, each craft darting in and out like Mastiffs nipping at an Ursal's rear. They stuck at its recovering shields over and over, keeping their victim off balance and unable to restore its protection. The Mon-Keigh tried to respond with bursts of firepower but the Eldar darted back and forth, in a dazzling display of skill and the prey had no chance to focus its guns.

Athra was laughing at the sight, even as the stars pin-wheeled in the display and he cried, "Look how they bleed, they lumber about like one of the beasts in the Wych-Cult arenas!"

Dramaq commented, "But like those beasts, they remain dangerous."

As they watched the Mon-Keigh scow was rolling over, spinning on its own axis to bring a broadside to bear. It targeted one of the Dark Eldar's cruisers and then unleashed a rolling broadside of destruction. Ranked tiers of guns, las, missiles and plasma shot out into the void, inundating space itself in a swathe of destruction. The targeted Cruiser dodged and weaved about in a desperate attempt to evade. Its Shadow-field may have thrown off the targeting of the broadside but it provided no physical protection and there were explosions all around it. Athra saw a single plasma blast catch the Cruiser dead on, blowing apart its hull in a wave of burning destruction. Wraithbone dissolved in a blazing inferno and delicate mechanisms were shattered while the crew caught in the blast were turned to ash by crude, brute force. The Cruiser was hit hard but it survived and darted away, bleeding energy and bodies from a massive hole blown in its side.

Athra's jubilance disappeared and he snarled, "How dare they strike their betters!"

"Their Shields are still down," declared Dramaq, "Shall we gather the fleet for one overwhelming attack, a spear to the heart to finish them off? "

Athra waved the suggestion aside and said, "No, I have a more elegant solution in mind, we shall launch the strike craft. Let them see death descend upon them on a thousand black wings."


	6. Chapter 6

**Saeva Abyssi Chapter 6**

Under the jade light of Astu a battle raged between swarming darts of glossy killers and a single lumbering brute, all alone in the night. The bright flares of Phantom lances whipped out over and over, while contrails of missiles, flashes of Las and the dark silhouettes of shells spat back in return. The Thunderchild had size and firepower on its side, in theory a solid hit from its guns should shatter any Dark Eldar craft, but actually hitting any of them was proving difficult.

On the Thunderchild's bridge all was noise and bedlam, men shouting and yelling orders back and forth while alarms blared and Servitors chattered mindlessly to themselves. Standing upon the command dais Captain Toran was trying to claw back some order from this madness, to find some way, any way to fight back. He held onto the rail as the ship shook beneath him and he called, "Status report!"

From the engineerium station Bylan called, "+Shields are collapsing sir, every time we restore one zone the enemy knocks down another+"

Toran ordered, "Do whatever you have to keep them up, we don't have the kind of armour to take a pounding without them."

Toran then looked over at the gunnery pews and shouted, "Gunners, by the Throne why aren't we hitting anything?!"

Jediah looked up and called, "We're firing everything but the enemy are disrupting our targeting auspexs, we can't get a solid lock."

From the Sensorium Persion shouted, "They're using some form of holographic camouflage, its baffling our Machine Spirits!"

Toran looked up at the Hololith and indeed saw harsh squalls of static obscuring everything. Icons appeared at random and then disappeared; making it hard to even know how many foes they were fighting. At times it seemed to be only a handful, at other times scores of false images appeared all around them. Toran reminded himself of the brief moment the enemy had been exposed and he had seen three slim cruisers and four escorts. He had to believe that was the sum total of the force attacking them, the alternative was to lash out at shadows.

Toran declared, "We can't fight them like this, they will pick us apart one piece at a time. We need to focus our guns on one enemy, find me a target!"

Persion bent over a console and shouted, "Port-side high, I think there's one of the bigger ones lurking up there."

Toran called back, "You think?!"

Persion replied, "That's the best I can give you."

"I'll take it," growled Toran gritting his teeth, "Furion roll us hard to starboard. Jediah hold the port side guns until I give the order, set for a wide-dispersion spread, I want that whole area saturated."

The crew hastened to make his order a reality and the ship lurched as the gravity generators fought to compensate for the sudden manoeuvre. Long seconds passed as the Thunderchild rolled over and the planet Astu circled in the Hololith, then they were in alignment and Toran yelled, "Fire!" A wave of eruptions sprang into being, wreathing the whole side of the ship in incandescent plumes. Stacked tiers of weapon batteries unleashed their power, hurling a devastating broadside into space in one massive barrage. The wave of destruction flew straight into space, crisscrossing a small area and turning it into a kill box. Las, plasma, shells and missiles inundated the region, filling it with deadly power and ensuring that nothing could escape without damage. Toran watched this play out in the Hololith and then called, "Did we hit anything?"

"Stand-by," called Persion peering at his readings then he declared, "Detecting debris, we definitely hit something. The distortion is moving away but much slower than before, I think we crippled it."

"Ha!" roared Chaplain Wrethan from among the frantic crew, "That will teach the Xeno scum not to build their ships out of glass!"

Toran was about to respond but then there was a commotion at the bridge hatch and he glanced back to see a red-robed figure floating past the protesting guards. It was Magos Castabore and she was shouting, "Captain, I demand to know what is going on!"

Toran barked, "Magos, we have no time for this, we are under attack!"

Castabore sounded outraged as she called, "That is unacceptable, this ship hasn't even finished its shakedown."

"Don't tell me," Toran shouted, "Tell that to the Eldar!"

Suddenly there was a shout as Persion cried, "New contacts, we have new contacts, sharp and clear. The enemy is launching Strike Craft!"

Toran yelled, "Do we have Thunderhawks yet?!"

Novak called back, "Not a chance, the whole launch bay is clogged with debris!"

That pronouncement sent stirs of panic throughout the serfs and even the Space Marines recognised the immense danger they were in. With no strike craft of their own, the ship was helpless; their turrets would never stop a whole strike wing of bombers. Toran was lost for words as his mind spun through possible responses, creating and discarding strategies at Transhuman speeds. From the helm Furion called, "We could divert all power to the drives, run in a straight line and attempt to break away."

Wrethan growled, "Outrun the Eldar in space, you must be joking."

Castabore interjected, "Actually these emissions do not match standard Eldar patterns, I believe we are dealing with the piratical breed known colloquially as Dark Eldar."

"Magos," growled Wrethan, "Either shut up or get off the bridge."

Suddenly Toran hit upon a desperate idea and he shouted, "Helm swing us hard to port, point us straight at them. Ordnance, ready a spread of Torpedoes."

The crew responded but Novak called from the Ordnance pulpit, "Sir, Torpedoes won't stop bombers."

"Trust me," called Toran, "Link fire control for remote detonation and wait for my word to launch."

Ponderously the Thunderchild swung over, pushing itself hard to bring its prow around to face the incoming strike craft. Lights flickered and servitors wailed as Bylan called, "+Captain, reactors are pushed to the limit. We have power fluctuations across the ship and shields are weakening+"

Toran was firm and relentless as he ordered, "Steady men, steady. It's time to see what this ship can really do."

Slowly the great prow came about and the seconds dragged by, and then the ship was finally in alignment and Toran ordered, "Launch torpedoes."

The Thunderchild shuddered as six colossal cylinders spat from her bow, racing forth on contrails of plasma wash. They tore through the void at terrific speed, while the incoming Strike Craft bore down upon them. Their relative velocities were staggering and it was mere moments until they closed the distance, flying into each other's formations. Toran watched them cross and then he yelled, "Detonate the warheads on my mark…. MARK!"

Six brilliant balls of fire were birthed in the void, huge eruptions of light and radiation springing into being, right at the heart of the dark winged bomber formation. The torpedoes were ship-killers, designed to burn through metres thick armour rather than spread devastation across a wide area, but they were terrifyingly powerful nonetheless. None of the tiny Strike Craft were actually destroyed but the sheer power of the blasts erupted in front of the crews, searing incandescent light into their eyes. The bomber crews panicked, thinking that they were in genuine danger and they pulled away in all directions, scattering their formation to the nine vectors. On the Thunderchild's bridge the crew erupted into cheers and jubilant celebration as the Space Marines rattled their fists upon their chestplates and Bylan cried, "+He did it, he did it! The Captain scared them out of the void!+"

Toran however was already issuing new orders, "Helm bring us to course 115 by 034 maximum acceleration."

Furion called, "Sir that will take us perilously close to the gas giant."

Toran replied, "It can't be helped, we must break out of this kill box."

The Thunderchild rumbled as the drives built-in power and the great ship surged forward on a comet tail of plasma. She dove closer to Astu, using the gravity well to increase her velocity and accelerated just over the curve of the atmosphere. She had the tiniest window of opportunity to escape, to rush out in one direction before the trap closed once more. It was her one hope of surviving this day, yet unfortunately the Dark Eldar knew that too. Even as Toran watched the shimmering distortions in the Hololith closed in, signalling that the hunters were right on their tails. Toran gritted his teeth and called, "I need better tactical information, Magos Castabore, can you clear up the Sensorium?"

Castabore floated over to the station and replied, "There may be some esoteric equations I could utilise, but the Fabricator General has decreed these are for the exclusive use of the Mechanicus' Basilikon Astra."

Persion practically yelled at her, "We won't tell him if you don't!"

Castabore went to work on the Sensorium and after a moment the feed cleared somewhat, the image was still hazy and jumping but Toran could just about make out their foes. Right behind them were four escort frigates, closing hard and nipping at their tail. Meanwhile ahead of them dashed three Cruisers, running out in front to cut off any possible route of escape. If the Thunderchild kept on going she would run straight into them but if she slowed or turned the escorts would catch her exposed rear.

The Thunderchild was caught between two fires, unable to run and unable to stop. Yet the worst threat was the bombers, which were reforming their ranks for another run. No matter where the Thunderchild went they would find her and tear her apart. Toran ran vectors in his head and saw that they were trapped, every avenue of escape was closed to them: except for one. Before he could reconsider Toran called, "Helm, lower the bow until we touch the atmosphere, we can try to skip off it and increase speed."

"This again?" Furion replied, "Captain these aren't Orks, these are Dark Eldar, it may not work this time."

Toran called, "We have to try."

Slowly the Thunderchild lowered its prow and it sank lower and lower until its hull grazed the atmosphere. Her shields flared in protest as they absorbed the terrific heat of re-entry but even then the hull began to glow cherry red from the inferno broiling all around. The Thunderchild became a shooting star, trailing a path of smoke and fire in her wake as she tore across the surface of Astu in a desperate bid to escape. Toran was holding onto the juddering rail as the bridge convulsed around him. Serfs cried out terror while servitors wailed as feedback ripped into their systems and the whole ship screeched from the friction. Terrible rocking motions buffeted the Thunderchild from side to side, throwing men off their feet and even the Space Marines had to hold on to stand upright.

Toran called, "Persion, can you see the enemy?"

Persion reported, "It would be hard to miss them, they're leaving a re-entry trail a blind man could follow. They're right on our arse Captain, matching our manoeuvre perfectly. Better in fact, they almost seem to be designed for this sort of thing."

Toran snarled, "Damnation, we won't shake them this way."

From the Engineerium Bylan reported, "+Captain, we can't take much more of this, the stress rivals Warp-Storm ferocity. We are actually experiencing pressure on the hull+"

"Pressure," breathed Toran as a mad, crazy idea hit him and he called, "Castabore, how much pressure can our hull take?"

Castabore bobbed up and replied, "I have no available data, we never even considered simulating it."

Toran growled, "It has to be more than the Xeno's glass-hulls can take, if we go deep enough into the gas giant they will have to break off pursuit or be crushed."

Silence fell as the insane proposal shocked everybody dumb, and they stared in disbelief. A sea of wide eyes met Toran until Furion coughed and said, "Captain, if we go any deeper I am not sure the engines can produce enough thrust to arrest our fall, let alone claw us back up again. We could be the ones crushed."

Toran's face was grim as he declared, "If we do nothing we die anyway, this way we have a chance."

It was a completely mad idea but before anybody else could protest Persion cried, "Warp Hells, they're closing, weapons range in ten seconds!"

"That's it we're out of options, take us down," Toran declared, "Dive, dive, dive!"


	7. Chapter 7

**Saeva Abyssi Chapter 7**

The atmosphere of Astu was a turgid mix of gases and compounds, a constantly swirling soup of chemical reactions and impurities. The green tint was everywhere, resulting from traces of rare elements and it grew thicker and darker in relation to its distance from the surface. The light from the distant star grew dimmer and dimmer the further one went, creating a world of darkness and constant motion as one descended into the depths.

Into that dark world fell a flaming meteor, a massive lozenge of plasteel and Adamantium hurtling downwards with unstoppable momentum. It was the Thunderchild and it was on a course into the heart of the planet, diving belly first with all the grace and dignity of a dropped brick. Flames licked around its hull and trailed behind it, the friction of re-entry creating an inferno of heat and light. The searing temperatures created small denotations around the ship, the chemicals of the atmosphere reacting and catalysing in response to the heat. So the Thunderchild fell, trailing fire and dirty black smoke behind it as it plummeted into the unknowable depths.

Aboard her bridge the crew were clinging on for dear life, buffeted and rocked by the violence of the descent. As the ship fell the hull screeched from the violence, shaking the decks and making the whole ship sound like it was screaming. The Serfs wailed to hear the Thunderchild's distress and they cried to the Emperor for deliverance but none of them could make themselves heard over the thunderous noise. The whole deck shook and rattled from the rocking motion of the turbulence, making Servitors sway in their hard points and causing many Serfs to throw up, staining the clean decks with bile.

In the midst of this Captain Toran was holding onto the rail of the command dais, trying not to be thrown from his feet. The descent was as violent as that of a Gunship in combat and he had been forced to Mag-lock his boots to the deck in order to stay upright. Toran knew that the Thunderchild was in deadly danger but there was no other option, if they did not risk all then death was certain.

Toran drew in a breath and shouted, "Report!"

At the Helm Furion was clinging to a console called back, "We are falling fast and we have zero attitude control, if we flip over then were done for!"

Toran barked, "Where are the Dark Eldar?"

Persion had wedged himself into a corner between a console and the Sensorium and called, "Strike Craft have broken off pursuit but the escort frigates are still on our tail!"

At the Engineerium station Bylan was clinging to an impassive Servitor and called, "+The ship's hull is rattling like a dice and external pressure is already beyond 1000-kPa. Captain, she can't take much more of this!+"

Toran looked up at the juddering Hololith, which showed the hazy icons of their pursuers and replied, "She has to, if we pull up now the Dark Eldar will slice us to ribbons. We have to press on until the pressure forces them to break off."

Furion called, "Sir, if we go any deeper I am not sure either the anti-gravs or the manoeuvring thrusters will have enough power to arrest our fall!"

Toran was grim and unrelenting as he ordered, "We have no other options, we press on or we die."

For long minutes the Thunderchild continued to drop, making it seem like they would be falling for eternity. The noise and the shaking filled the world and many Serfs crouched in terror as they felt the certainty of doom overtaking them. Only the presence of their Transhuman masters kept them in line, holding back total panic with their resolute refusal to show fear. Suddenly there was a flash in the Hololith and a dark shape appeared. It was massive and inert, a thick slice of darkness that dwarfed the ship and filled the Hololith. The dark wedge surged towards them and then moved past as the Thunderchild swept by. Toran gasped and shouted, "Light of Terra, what was that?"

Persion called back, "I have no idea, but we almost hit it."

"A rock," called the voice of Magos Castabore, floating freely and calmly in the comforting embrace of her anti-gravs, "A composite of impurities in the atmosphere created by the coagulation of denser materials. It must be porous enough to hold lifting gasses in internal pockets, making it float unsupported in the atmosphere. This conforms to similar phenomenon witnessed in the planet Vespid…"

"Magos!" shouted Chaplain Wrethan from among the serf's stations, "This is neither the time nor the place for a lecture!"

Castabore looked like she was about to retort but then Persion cried, "That's it, the pressure has grown too great. The Dark Eldar can't go any deeper, they're breaking off!"

Toran felt relief sweep over him and he bellowed, "Helm, engage anti-gravs and fire all ventral thrusters, halt the descent now!"

Spurred by his orders the crew fought to obey, struggling with juddering controls to bring the helm under control. The Thunderchild quivered as braking rockets fired and the deck lurched beneath their feet, while great arcane engines came to life and sought to cancel out the giga-tonne mass of the ship. Anti-grav projectors were rarely used outside of dry-dock, but now they were all that stood between the Thunderchild and a crushing death. A terrible sense of weight settled upon everybody, the artificial gravity being unable to totally cancel out the sheer G-forces at play. Read-outs sped by on consoles all around the bridge and Servitors chattered data, reading out velocities and altitudes. Toran looked at the read-outs and saw the numbers still spinning by madly as they plummeted. He could see that the Thunderchild was slowing, but not enough, not nearly enough.

Toran shouted, "Helm, increase power to the thrusters, slow us down."

But Furion bellowed back, "Thrusters are already at maximum!"

From the engineerium Bylan called, "+Hull pressure is increasing, we've just passed 10,000-kPa. The hull is straining to hold itself together+"

Toran gritted his teeth, Imperial starships were built to withstand the titanic stresses of the Warp but they were not intended for atmospheric flight. The foreign pressure would crush this ship if they did not halt their descent immediately. He drew in a breath and ordered, "Cut power to the void shields and weapons, anything we don't absolutely need. Divert everything to the Anti-gravs now!"

The ship shuddered again and the juddering increased as power drained from the artificial gravity generators, leaving them running on minimum power. The descent slowed but Persion called, "We're slowing but not stopping, our momentum is too great, we are still falling."

Magos Castabore called, "Reactor output is too low, we only have seven generators operational, it is not enough."

Frantically Toran opened his vox link to Techmarine Hevostan and called, "Engine room, come in engine room."

Hevostan's voice came back, "Captain we hear you. I know what you want but we're already at the limit, I can't push her any harder."

Toran snarled, "I need more power!"

"I cannot do it Captain," Hevostan reported back snappily, "I'm giving it all she's got!"

Toran's response was cut off as a terrible groan ripped through the hull, the grinding squeal of metal being squeezed by inexorable pressures. The Captain knew that they were mere moments away from being crushed by the mass of the gas giant. He wracked his brain but could think of nothing that could arrest their fall, death seemed inevitable. Suddenly Castabore spun about and excitedly called, "The main drives, their output exceeds that of manoeuvring thrusters, they may be enough to stop us."

Instantly Toran was ordering, "Helm, point the bow upwards and divert power to the main drives!"

Furion leapt into action and the bridge swayed was the whole ship tilted backwards, lowering its stern towards the black depths below. There was a single second that dragged out to eternity and then came the thunderous, blessed roar of the main drives igniting, firing downwards at a forty-five degres. Toran's eyes were fixed upon the readouts and he saw the numbers begin to slow in their tumble, gradually decreasing in their mad spin. Incrementally the numbers dragged past, slowing more with each second that passed. Everybody held their breaths as they watched, waiting for the results to appear. Finally the numbers ground to a halt and then they began to turn back, one by one reversing as the Thunderchild halted its descent and began to climb out of the depths.

Like an oceanic beast the ship slowly lifted itself from the depths, the hull creaking in relief as the pressure began to diminish. Toran sagged in relief as the Thunderchild climbed, standing upon a tail of its own plasma wash. As they rose the sense of alarm began to diminish and the Serfs breathed easily and grinned with the mad smiles of those who had avoided death by the narrowest of margins. Toran waited until they had risen high enough for the hull to stop creaking then opened a private vox link and said to the squad, "Report."

Furion went first saying, "Were holding steady, now we've shed our momentum the engines can raise us up to a safer altitude then we can cut back to minimum thrust and coast on the anti-gravs."

Novak spoke up to say, "Then can we get out of here?"

Furion replied, "On seven reactors… no. We could never make escape velocity, especially not with the drag of this atmosphere."

Jediah interjected, "We don't even have enough spare energy to power up the shields or the majority of the weapon systems. Turbo lasers, plasma annihilators and graviton beamers draw too much power. We are limited to projectile weapons only: Macrocanons, missiles, Bombardment canons and Torpedoes."

Novak shook his head and said, "That's hardly our biggest concern right now."

Jediah replied, "Don't forget there are still Dark Eldar up there, they won't have given up so easily. Sooner or later we will have to fight our way out."

Bylan said, "+But they can't come down here to find us either, we could slip out right from under their noses+"

Novak asked, "Won't they see us?"

Persion snorted and said, "In this soup of an atmosphere, not a chance. We can barely see ourselves and even Xenos sensors have their limits. Once we cut the engines back, and as long as I keep the Auspex in passive mode, they won't have a clue where we are."

Castabore butted in to say, "I am registering several more of those floating rock formations nearby, their mass is considerable, we may be able to use them for cover."

Furion cautioned though, "It would require careful navigation lest we run straight into one but one careless energy surge would be like sending up a signal flare. We will have to be careful not to give ourselves away."

Jediah drew in a breath and said, "So let me get this straight, we are trapped here in this soup of an atmosphere, one reactor short and being hunted by enemies. We can't break back out into space and if the anti-gravs fail then we will fall to be crushed to death at the heart of this planet. And if that's not enough we have no shields and only half our guns, should the Dark Eldar find us we will be cut to ribbons."

"Enough," growled Chaplain Wrethan, "We are Astartes, the inheritors of a long and noble tradition. Did Roboute Guilliman cower when Calth burned? Did Marneus Calgar weep when Hive Fleet Behemoth came for Macragge or the Daemon M'kar arose. Did Chapter Master Koorland quail before the Great Beast or Pedro Kantor tremble at Rynn's World? No they faced the danger unflinchingly and emerged triumphant, as shall we."

"Wise words," said Toran, "We will not shirk from our duty and we will rise from this defeat like a phoenix from the ashes."

Persion asked, "So what do we do?"

Toran declared, "We hold here and redress our wounds, then we find a way to fight back. Work the problem Space Marines, we all know the challenges ahead, now I want practical solutions."

Wrethan declared, "I should go brief the rest of the squads."

Toran shook his head and said, "No, I won't shirk from telling them the truth myself. Wrethan you take command here, I will go and inform them what the situation is and tell them to be ready for anything."


	8. Chapter 8

**Saeva Abyssi Chapter 8**

High over Astu the Farseer T'selia was sitting cross-legged under a crystal dome. The green light reflecting off the gas giant bathing her in a sea of emerald that shimmered off her white robes. She sat utterly still, breathing only once a minute with her face raised to the light and her eyes closed. She appeared to be at peace, still and silent and yet her mind was frantically busy. T'selia's mind was sifting the Skein of time, examining the various futures and potentials as they moved and changed before her. Many probable prospects had already fallen by the wayside, displaced by less likely but still valid futures. The Farseer was not surprised by this, the Skein of time was ever shifting, the futures ever struggling and jostling to become the actual present.

T'selia had foreseen that her presence on the bridge had been unnecessary during the first battle. The vast majority of prospects had seen the Mon-Keigh scow burned bow to stern and the target dead without her intervention. Nothing she could have said or done would have changed the Skein at that point. This present had always been possible though, the Mon-Keigh surviving the initial scrap and fleeing to the world below. Now the Skein told her that the vast majority of futures resulted in the filthy animals' deaths. Ensnared by Athra's hunting frigates, lost to the failures of technology or caught by the larger Cruisers as they attempted to flee back into the void.

T'selia was satisfied that the Skein favoured her; the potential futures where the Mon-Keigh survived were few and far between. It was a fitting punishment for the filthy beings, after what they had done to Idharae the entire species deserved extinction. The thought of her lost and dead Craftworld kindled a terrible rage in T'selia, the knowledge that she had failed to guide her people to safety gnawing away at her soul. It was not just the physical destruction either; the ignorant savages had shattered the precious soul stones of her ancestors, condemning their essences to be cast into the Warp. Such a fate was worse than death to an Eldar, to lose their fragile protection was to be revealed to She Who Thirsts. The nightmarish Chaos God the Eldar race had created in their own hubris: Slaanesh bane of the Eldar.

T'selia realised that her breathing had increased, the rage bubbling just under the surface of her self-control. She knew that her anger was growing with every day that passed, that her self-control was growing brittle and threatening to shatter her psychic defences. By all rights she should present herself to the Shrines of War and set her feet upon the Path of the Aspect Warrior, but it was impossible. She was a Farseer; an Exarch of psychic might, once committed to that Path there was no going back. By letting her rage and anger control her actions she was acting in direct defiance of the Paths, putting her soul in peril. Yet she could not stop herself, the die was cast and the risk was one she accepted. T'selia forced her breathing to slow and stroked the precious Soul-stone upon her breast. It was more than just her defence and the receptacle for her soul; it was bound to her, woven into her essence in ways subtle and deep. As long as she had it then her soul was protected from the Warp.

T'selia forced her mind back to the Skein and examined the potentials for herself. To see into one's own personal future was the most difficult and treacherous of tasks for any clairvoyant, the very act of looking shifting the weft of everything. Nothing could be trusted for anything could change at a moment. T'selia could see that she was playing a dangerous game, she did not only have to kill the Mon-Keigh target, she had to survive afterwards. T'selia knew that Athra J'rect had designs upon her person, that he was planning a cavalcade of torments for her flesh. But she had chosen him for a reason, alone among Archons he would not have instantly thrown her into a cell and started torturing her. The Dark Eldar was too enamoured of his own cleverness, he would try to be subtle and end up outsmarting himself. Still that did not mean he was not dangerous.

T'selia had foreseen that had the Archon won the first battle then she would have had to beat a swift retreat, fleeing before he came for her. Had the Archon caught her before she could run then T'selia would have obliterated him in an instant. More worrying was the potential that he would have sent his Incubus, Dramaq would have been a far more troubling fight. Yet those futures had passed by unfulfilled and now there were new potentials to examine. In the vast majority of futures the Archon would either be dead, defeated or crippled, left to scream impotently at her victory. Yet there were a handful of futures where he won, seeing T'selia dead, mad or thrown into a torture cell to suffer for eternity. In other futures she became a trophy for his court, a broken, mad fool dragged out to entertain his guests. Worse than that were the futures where he bound her to a Talos pain engine, becoming an unwilling ally in his raiding and pillaging. There was even a single, lone future where she joined him as a willing ally, becoming a mistress of pain and suffering in her own right.

T'selia shook off the vision and focussed on the mission at hand; the Mon-Keigh would try to fight back and she would need to intervene. With her power and foresight most futures contained her victory yet there were still possible futures where the target survived and went on to fulfil its destiny. She would have to be bold to prevent that, to ensure the primitive's death came to pass and seal the race's doom.

T'selia's meditations were disturbed by the clomp of a heavy tread, the thump of an armoured boot. The Farseer sighed, this was not a conversation she had been looking forward to, the Sorcerer Beta was coming back for another attempt to weasel his prize from her. She opened her eyes and snapped, "What do you want now?"

Beta stood before her, hands raised in a Mon-Keigh gesture of appeasement and he said, "I only came to talk. Our last conversation did not go so well, I want to rectify that, I was hoping we could reach an accord."

T'selia looked at him, the filthy animal disgusted her. Not only was he was from a degenerate race of barbarians but he also willingly embraced damnation. For a moment T'selia considered obliterating him from existence, but unfortunately he had his own role to play in the various futures. As much as it pained her T'selia would have to tolerate him for now. The Farseer gestured for the Sorcerer to be seated and he did so, resting his staff across his armoured knees. Then he did something she had not foreseen, he reached up and took off his helm. Revealed underneath was a brutish Mon-Keigh face, but in a rough way, he was somewhat handsome. He was bald and had tattoos upon his cheekbones, on the left a large 'A' shape, on the right a pair of serpents writhing around each other. His face was oddly lacking in scars and his eyes were the deepest green.

Beta started the conversation by saying, "This campaign has taken an odd turn, we did not expect the Storm Heralds to flee into the planet."

T'selia shrugged and said, "It is of no concern, the Skein shall show us the way. The target will die regardless."

Beta commented, "We could tip the odds if you would talk to Athra and persuade him to allow me to summon my flagship to this system."

T'selia cut her hand horizontally in denial as she said, "No, the forces here are sufficient for the task."

Beta eyed her then said, "You know Athra does not really care about destroying the Storm Heralds."

T'selia tutted and declared, "Neither do you, you are only here for the prize I promised you. Nothing else matters to you."

Beta drew in a breath and said, "How little you understand me, I care for many things."

T'selia kept a polite mask over her contempt for Mon-Keigh concerns as she said, "Is that why you turned on your own gene-sire?"

Beta looked up at the planet and said, "From the beginning the XXth Legion was different from all others, created in secret for secret wars. We were made to fight the unseen battles, the shadow campaigns that other legions could not, or would not fight. We moved in silence and few even knew of our existence, only Malcador and his ilk. To them were the Ghost Legion, the Vigil, the Strife Wrought and the Last Unity. We earned no glory, no renown or titles, even honour was denied to us, there was only the mission and its completion. Yet the one thing we had was our brotherhood, our family."

T'selia commented, "And then your twin Primarchs came."

Beta nodded, "Yes and at first it was wondrous, our twin fathers so like us not only in body but in mind and soul too. They thought like we did, moved like we did and their strategies were flawless in planning and execution. They led us into the light, to stand alongside the other Legions, though those snobs never appreciated us."

T'selia remarked, "How nice for you."

Beta sighed and said, "Even after we emerged the Alpha Legion still got all the odd jobs, the wars no one else could do. It was after the defeat of the Ak'Haireth bone drinkers that we received word that the Imperium was under attack by a strange form of Xeno. A sentient virus that would infect whole worlds before turning the people to its service, a most cunning enemy that only the Alpha Legion could detect, let alone fight. Alpharius dispatched several cells to investigate, to gather samples and specimens so we could formulate a response."

T'selia had heard of such things and said, "So what went wrong?"

Beta looked down and said, "A cell fell off the grid, the Unbroken Chain, they disappeared entirely. Alpharius personally sent me to investigate and I tracked them down, only to discover a horror. The cell had been infected by the virus, their gene-crafting proving useless at resisting it; they were in its service. As soon as they saw me they attacked, I was forced to defend myself by extreme measures."

T'selia said accusingly, "You called upon the powers of Chaos and killed them all."

Beta snarled, "It was self-defence, I was forced to call upon the powers of the Warp to survive!"

T'selia, commented, "And your Primarchs were angry."

"Yes… but not about the deaths of our brothers," barked Beta, "They didn't care if the Unbroken Chain cell lived or died, but they condemned me for the methods I employed, they said I was unsound. That's when I realised the truth: they had sent out the cell without warning them of the danger, holding back essential information. They might as well have pulled the triggers themselves. I wasn't going to let that stand, my Brothers deserved better, they deserved justice. That's when I decided that the Primarchs had to pay for what they had done in their carelessness."

T'selia was quiet for a long moment then softly said, "Did you really think that a sad story would sway me?"

Beta blinked and said, "I don't…"

T'selia growled, "Your attempts at manipulation are feeble and transparent, did you think your history would make me sympathise with you?"

Beta spluttered, "But…"

T'selia stood up and barked, "I do not care for you or for any of your filthy species, better that you had died in the fires of Horus' rebellion than live to plague the rest of the galaxy!"

Now Beta was angry and said, "You promised…"

"Yes your precious prize, it shall remain in my cabin under lock and key," T'selia sneered, "When the mission is complete then I shall bestow it upon you, but not until I am ready."

With those words the Farseer turned and swept out, leaving the Sorcerer sitting under the dome to contemplate her words. Long seconds passed by as Beta reflected quietly then he grinned to himself and whispered, "So the prize is in her cabin… that is most useful to know."


	9. Chapter 9

**Saeva Abyssi Chapter 9**

In the murky depths of the gas-giant the Thunderchild drifted slowly, borne up by the thrumming energies of its anti-gravs. By merely human measures the ship was vast and ponderous but these conditions made it seem diminutive and small. It was a speck of dust upon the wind, a leaf caught in a raging current and it let itself be pushed along with no eventual destination in mind. Only tiny bursts from its manoeuvring thrusters kept it from being tumbled over, short bursts of plasma jets to keep it steady.

Deep within its decks Captain Toran was touring the ship, inspecting the crew and compartments as he went. He could feel the strange sensation of the Thunderchild rocking beneath his feet, the artificial gravity failing to compensate for the hurricane force winds battering the ship from all sides. It felt oddly like an aquatic boat riding over the waves, rising and falling with every step, occasionally lurching to the side as a crosswind rocked it. To a native of Lujan II, a planet dominated by vast oceans, it was a familiar and almost comforting sensation.

The sensations were stirring odd memories in Toran, thoughts he had believed were excised during his hypno-indoctrination. His subconscious mind kept returning to the life of a small child, being taught to trim a sail by a father he thought was a giant, collecting fishing nets alongside boisterous brothers and a mother's voice singing him to sleep. Toran shook his head and locked the memories back behind a mental wall, that child was long gone, sacrificed to make something harder and sterner and more noble. He was an Astartes now, a warrior of the Emperor and he would not trade that life for anything. Toran sighed as he recognised that he was distracting himself, trying to avoid thinking about their dire situation. He had led his ship and crew into deadly danger, leaving them trapped and imperilled within a trap, surrounded by enemies. He reviewed every moment of the battle and the decisions he had made but could find no alternatives, no other options he could have explored. He did not regret his decisions though, recriminations were useless, all that mattered was what they did next.

Currently Toran was making his way deeper into the ship, headed away from the Astropath's sanctum where he had been given disappointing news. His course took him step by step towards the Initiates' barracks, where the Sergeants were waiting for his briefing. It was not a meeting he was looking forward to, but it had to be done and he could only hope that one of them would have a good idea about their situation. Toran walked on, practising what he was going to say in his mind and as he did so he passed various Serfs going about their duties. The crewmen paused and saluted the Captain with the sign of the Aquila and Toran nodded respectfully in return to each and every one. He knew that their lives were in his hands, that the decisions he made would determine whether they lived or died and it was a responsibility he took most seriously.

Toran was aware that many Astartes looked down upon mortals, despising their frailties and their weaknesses. Chaplain Wrethan in particular was hard to impress, there were few mortals he genuinely respected. Yet Toran felt differently, he had seen mere men show tremendous courage when well led. Neither would he hate them for lacking his training or augmentations. Always he reminded himself of the teachings of his Primarch, and he quoted to himself, "All men are granted different talents and duties according to their station. Despise ye not the humble man in his labours for he is performing his Emperor assigned role, as are you."

Toran was startled when he realised that his feet had taken him to the barracks, where he would have to face his Sergeants. Toran swallowed his trepidation, he was determined that he would not show anxiety or regret. He strode through the doors and found himself in a large training room. Here there were practice cages with dormant servitors, duelling mats and firing ranges, all empty and deserted. The majority of the Company was absent of course, when the ship was at battle stations they would be dispersed to strategic posts around the critical areas. Toran heard voices from a smaller chamber off to one side and he strode over to it, hoping he looked more confident than he felt. He entered with a brisk stride and the Sergeants paused in their conversations, then they presented a salute which he returned. Toran took a moment to look them over, ten Sergeants, the mix of Tactical, Assault and Devastators that made up Third Company. They were all stood ready, swaying slightly as the deck rocked beneath them. Some of them Toran had known for years, others were relative newcomers, elevated or transferred to replace battlefield losses. There were also three squadron leaders from the Thunderhawk wings, the pilots were under Toran's authority but not part of Third Company itself.

Toran walked over to a Hololith pedestal set in one corner and activated it, then he addressed the assembled Sergeants saying, "Welcome Brothers, know there's are a lot of rumours flying around but I am here to give you the hard facts... and it's not good news."

Sergeant Matheus declared, "Give it to us straight Captain, we all stand with you."

Toran was glad Matheus had taken the lead for he was a respected veteran of the Chapter, staunch, indomitable and a firm adherent to the Codex Astartes. If Matheus was showing his support then this would be a constructive meeting, not a place to argue about blame.

Toran summoned an recording of the recent battle and as it replayed he explained, "As you probably know the Thunderchild has come under attack by a fleet of Dark Eldar raiders. We were outnumbered, outgunned and outmanoeuvred; our only option was to withdraw into the atmosphere of Astu itself. Currently we are holding at such a depth that the Dark Eldar can neither see nor reach us, but we are overextended and low on power. We can't stay here forever but neither can we climb out of the atmosphere. Even if we could there are Eldar escorts hunting for us and larger cruisers waiting in orbit."

Silence greeted that pronouncement as the Marines took in the situation then Sergeant Mylos stepped forward, clomping on an augmetic leg. He scowled and then spat, "So, in other words, we are completely shafted."

Toran sighed to himself, Mylos was the unofficial Naysmith of the Company but sometimes he seemed to forget the difference between criticism and constructive criticism. Toran replied in exasperation, "We are not lost yet, we still have a ship and crew. We have our weapons and the means to fight on; we will find a way out of this mess and make the Dark Eldar pay."

From among the circled Marines, Devastator Sergeant Zeax interjected, "I hate to state the obvious but have we considered sending out an Astropathic distress call?" Zeax was the most direct and straightforward of souls, calling for the simplest solutions. Usually that involved levelling absolutely everything from afar, regardless of collateral damage or civilian casualties, but sometimes he came out with surprisingly good ideas.

Unfortunately Toran had already thought of that and he answered, "I stopped by the Astropathic choir on my way here, it did not go well. They cannot reach any of their brethren, not even on Astu's moons. They speak of a haze in the Warp; I suspect the Xenos are using some form of psychic trickery to block our communications."

Mylos stated frankly, "Even if we could send a signal it would take weeks for aid to come from Lujan II or the naval base at Tectum. We can't wait that long, one failure in the anti-gravs and we all plummet to the core of this planet."

Assault Sergeant Lorath snarled, "Well then, we'll just have to fight our way out. I say we lift ourselves out of this murk, draw the Dark Eldar in and gut them as they come."

Matheus however demurred, "That action is not supported by the Codex Astartes."

Zeax sounded surprised as he said, "The Codex has passages that deal with fighting Eldar inside a gas-giant?"

Matheus replied, "Codex Volume VII, Chapter IX, Verse XV: Never fight an enemy on his chosen ground."

Toran declared, "He is right, to position ourselves out in the open merely plays to all the Dark Eldar's strengths. We need to change the situation, to find some other way to fight back."

Mylos said, "How exactly are we supposed to do that?"

Toran replied, "We still have some weapons capabilities and a full Company on board. The launch bay is temporarily blocked but repair teams are working on it, we should have the ability to deploy Thunderhawks in a few hours."

That declaration made the squadron commanders nod in enthusiasm but Mylos said, "So if needs be we can evacuate in the Thunderhawks and escape the planet."

That caused a stir, the idea of running from a battle sitting ill with any Astartes. There was also the unspoken thought that the Chapter's newest ship would have to be left behind; no warrior would willingly abandon such a prize unless the situation was dire.

Matheus spoke up to say, "Where would we go?"

Mylos said, "Astu has inhabited moons, we could get that far in gunships and then make our stand on solid ground."

There were nods from some of the Sergeants but Zeax put paid to that idea by saying, "We would be exposed the whole way, unless you think Thunderhawks can outrun Dark Eldar cruisers. They would pick us off long before we even saw the ground."

Toran declared, "He's right, we can't cut and run, we need to stay with the ship and find a new strategy."

Lorath said, "So how do we fight back?"

Toran said, "We are low enough to go undetected and have limited manoeuvring capability, if we ride Astu's winds they will carry us far from here. We can slip past the Dark Eldar and then formulate a proper strategy."

Mylos looked uncertain and said, "I thought we didn't have enough power to escape the planet."

Toran said, "Not to break into orbit, but we can manoeuvre around down here. Hevostan is in the Engineerium as we speak, if he can placate the spirit of reactor eight then we will have full power at last, that puts a lot more options on the table."

His statement caused many worried glances; Hevostan was an honoured Techmarine, holder of the sacred mysteries of circuit and science. Yet reactor Eight had gained a reputation, all had heard rumours that it was jinked or even cursed and that was not something that any man of the Imperium would take lightly.

Toran supressed their worries by declaring, "Now we have to make sure the squads are ready for anything, we need to tell them to…"

He was cut off by the harsh rasp of the vox and Chaplain Wrethan's voice came through saying, "Bridge to Captain Toran, bridge to the Captain, come in Toran."

Toran opened his link and said, "This is Captain Toran, go ahead bridge."

Wrethan declared, "Captain, Auspex is picking up an energy surge off the port bow, moving fast. We think it's an Eldar frigate."

Toran frowned and said, "Just the one? What's it doing all alone?"

Wrethan replied, "It's flying in circles, moving in a hunting pattern. They must have lost our trail and split up to look for us."

"Cocky pointy-eared scum," Lorath growled, "They are being recklessly arrogant to think that one frigate is a match for us."

Mylos muttered, "Either that or they know how bad our situation is."

Toran overrode them all saying, "Keep us deep and silent, don't do anything to give away our location until I get to the Bridge. Sergeants get back to your squads; it looks like battle has found us after all."


	10. Chapter 10

**Saeva Abyssi Chapter 10**

The tension on the Thunderchild's bridge could have been cut with a knife, men going about their duties with a harried, anxious air. The crew knew that they were in deadly peril and that death could come for them at any moment. Only the presence of their Transhuman masters gave them courage, the Space Marines stoic and unwavering in the face of danger. Into that atmosphere ran Captain Toran, his cloak billowing out behind him as he dashed up to the bridge. He pulled up short at the entrance hatch, then composed himself and strode in at a more measured pace, trying to look unconcerned for the crew's benefit. As he walked in he saw Chaplain Wrethan standing upon the command dais and he quickly leapt up to join him. Toran said, "What's the situation?"

Wrethan replied, "We were just manoeuvring around one of those floating rocks when the Auspex detected a Dark Eldar frigate. It's flying well above us in a search pattern, sweeping the whole area."

Toran asked, "Any indications that they've seen us?"

From the Sensorium Persion replied, "None so far, we're a long way beneath them and the atmosphere here is so dense that this murk shrouds our energy signature. We're still in the mass shadow of that rock so as long as we keep our main drives to minimum power they should have no idea that we're here."

Toran looked up at the Hololith which showed a clear, sharp image of a small craft, circling high overhead. It looked like it was sweeping about in a search pattern but something about it set Toran's hackles rising. It took him a moment to realise what was off but then he saw it and said, "Hold on we're right in the murk ourselves and half-blind, how the hell can we see them if they cant see us?"

Persion answered, "Because the Xenos are practically broadcasting their position with radiating energy and active sensor sweeps. The damned thing is lit up like a yew tree on Sanguinala-eve."

Toran was suspicious and said, "That is a foolish mistake to make, it's almost too good to be true."

Wrethan looked at him and said, "You suspect a trap?"

Toran nodded, "One escort, out all on its own to lure us out of cover. Then its friends hide nearby on low power, waiting to pounce on us when we take the bait."

"Not necessarily," came the voice of Magos Castabore floating up to eye level, "I hypothesize that what we are seeing is a consequence of chemicals in the atmosphere reacting to the Xeno's holographic camouflage. It is possible that the interference is disrupting their distortion fields and forcing them to continually reset the projection, creating energy surges in detectable frequencies."

Toran was surprised to hear that and said, "But if that's the case why don't they just turn the camouflage off?"

Furion looked up from the helm and declared "Because the arrogant scum refuses to believe that they could make a mistake, that we mere animals could outthink them."

Jediah called from the gunnery pews, "Captain, this is too good a chance to miss; we could make an easy kill right now."

Wrethan mused, "It is certainly a prime opportunity to blood this vessel, she still a war virgin."

"A clean kill could work wonders for the crew's morale," said Toran thoughtfully, "We should strike immediately."

Castabore however said, "Captain Toran, I must request that you delay your attack."

Toran frowned and said, "Why would we do that?"

Castabore explained, "The Xeno's holographic camouflage creates a sensor-distortion field around their ships. This is normally impenetrable, but right now they are constantly resetting the frequency. I believe with careful analysis of the energy harmonics I can establish the baseline coherence pattern that allows them to sustain a stable field. With this I may be able to derive an equation to solve the stability issues with our own masking technology."

Toran took a moment to comprehend her words then he queried, "Are you saying that you think you can use this to get our Reflex Shields working?"

Castabore snapped back testily, "I just said that."

Wrethan however cautioned, "Captain, I must advise against this, the risks of detection grow with every second. Any delay could endanger the ship, we should strike now."

Persion countered though saying, "But think of the strategic potential Reflex Shields possess, they could be invaluable."

Jediah spat, "They would be useless to us if we're dead, we should strike now."

Everybody paused to look at Toran and he knew that he had to make a decision. He weighed up the tactical value of an immediate strike against the strategic value of the Reflex Shields. He knew it was a risk but then all war was a calculated risk. Toran drew in a breath and said, "We aren't going to win this without an edge, the risks involved are necessary. We will stay under the cover of this rock while Castabore makes her recordings, which will give us a little time. But while we wait we will be far from idle, I want the whole ship made ready to react on a moment's notice. Novak, can the Tech-Adepts beseech the Torpedoes' spirits to track that energy signature?"

From the Ordnance pulpit Novak replied cockily, "They already have."

Toran smiled and said, "Excellent, then we shall strike at the opportune moment."

The crew set to work and Toran watched them go about their duties. He noted that the duty crew had been changed while he was away, the Serfs exchanging posts with their reliefs. He chided himself for not giving the order himself, for all his self-congratulations about caring for mortals he had forgotten that they were not Space Marines. No mere man could stay at his post forever, the crew had to work in shifts to keep the ship at peak operation. There was a tense air about the crew, for they knew that the enemy was right above them and could strike at any moment. Toran could feel it too, like a cold shiver down his spine and the feeling that there were eyes upon him at all times. He was reminded of the time as a boy when his family had sailed their fishing skiff through a shoal of reef-sharks, the man-eating predators were attracted to noise and they loved to capsize small boats to devour the crew. He had crouched in the bottom of the skiff, utterly still and silent while the adults waited anxiously at the sails. Nobody had dared move lest they draw notice and all they could do was drift onwards, praying that they would go unseen and unnoticed.

Toran felt the minutes crawl by, each second feeling like he had a target upon his back and was just waiting for a sniper's bullet. He glanced at Magos Castabore who was excitedly working over several consoles at once, there was no sign that she was finished but he knew that they could not wait for much longer. With every second that passed the risks grew and he knew soon he would have to order the attack regardless of the Magos' work. Just as he was about to make a decision Persion suddenly cried, "Warp Hells, we have a problem. That rock we're hiding under is shifting; it's going to collide with us!" Toran looked up and saw the vast floating rock drifting their way, tumbling over and over as the hurricane force winds pushed it about. He saw instantly that if they did nothing then the rock would hit them with catastrophic results, but if they moved away then their engines would send up a flare that the Dark Eldar could not possibly miss.

Toran made an instant decision and ordered, "Ready weapons, torpedoes on standby. Helm full power to the main drives; take us straight at the enemy."

Castabore yelled, "I need more time!"

But Toran growled, "Times up."

The Thunderchild rumbled to life as the engines pushed it forward, the increased speed buffeting it back and forward as it contested with the howling winds. Toran felt the deck heaving beneath his feet and fixed his eyes upon the Hololith. In the display he could see the Dark Eldar ship drifting above their heads, lazily circling. But then it suddenly span about and dove, headed right at them.

Toran called, "They've seen us, how long until weapon's range?"

Jediah replied, "Accounting for atmospheric drag: thirty seconds."

Toran bit his lip, watching the closing target and knew that without shields the Thunderchild was exposed and vulnerable. One direct hit on an anti-grav and the whole ship would tumble into the depths, to be crushed by the pressure of the gas giant's atmosphere. The seconds dragged out to eternity and then the foe crossed into range and Toran yelled, "Fire Bombardment canons!"

The Thunderchild rocked as the massive guns upon her spine spat building sized shells upwards, arcing slightly in the gravity. Toran watched the display, eagerly anticipating an impact but he was horrified when the icons flashed by and left the foe intact. He snarled, "We missed, how did we miss?"

Jediah called back, "This muck of an atmosphere is screwing up our targeting Spirits!"

Suddenly Persion cried, "Their firing, their firing!" There was a flash of energy and the whole ship rocked, buffeted to one side by a force that shook it like a rattle. Toran grabbed the rail as he was thrown to the side and called, "Damage report, tell me where we were hit? What about the anti-gravs?"

From Engineerium Bylan replied, "+We weren't hit, they missed us. That was just the shockwave of the phantom lance igniting gases in the atmosphere; it created a blast wave but did no damage+"

Persion swore, "By the Maelstrom, their targeting is as screwed up as ours. It's like having a gunfight in thick fog; we might as well be firing blind!"

Toran snarled, "Well here's something that doesn't need eyes: fire Torpedoes!"

The Thunderchild rocked backwards as six massive cylinders hurtled out from its prow, ship-killing ordnance spearing out into the gaseous mix outside the ship. They angled themselves upwards and blazed away on columns of fire, leaving billowing wakes behind their rears. The Torpedoes curved about as they sought their target, drawn towards the sparking flares of the Shadow-field. Toran watched their path in the Hololith and saw that the Dark Eldar craft was twisting about; trying to evade the strike with grace no Imperial ship could match. It dodged and weaved like a living thing, skipping across the sky in a desperate attempt to side-step the incoming torpedoes.

Toran bit his lip as he watched the scene play out, alien trickery against human engineering, Xeno witchery against pure Machine Spirits. The Dark Eldar craft twisted and the first torpedo flashed by without hitting it and the second and the third. But the fourth torpedo tracked about, spinning to one side and it collided in a direct impact. Instantly the plasma warhead detonated, creating a brief burst of sunlight in the cold depths. Then all that remained was a cloud of debris, wraithbone and shattered solar sails, spiralling downwards like scattered feathers as the last two torpedoes soared away into the distance.

The bridge of the Thunderchild erupted into cheers, serfs roaring in joy and pumping the air as they shouted huzzahs. Novak joined in crying triumphantly, "A kill, a most definite kill!"

While Wrethan called, "The Divine Emperor has favoured us, the vile Xenos are no match for Imperial might!"

Toran saw the jubilation and triumph on every face and knew it was something the whole crew should share. He commanded, "Pipe me through ship-wide."

After a moment's pause he declared, "Men of the Imperium, now hear this. Today the Thunderchild has drawn its first blood and you have claimed your first kill as her crew. Today this fine ship has proved her superiority over the Xeno's and she shall do so again and again and again. Victory for the Thunderchild, victory for the Emperor!"

He cut the link and could almost hear the cheers ringing in every deck as the crew celebrated. He gave it a moment, then said, "Get us back underway, I want us well out of the area before the other Dark Eldar come looking for their lost craft."

As the Thunderchild heaved away Toran turned to Wrethan and said, "I think this ship has at last revealed her Spirit."

Wrethan said curiously, "What makes you think that?"

Toran answered cheerfully, "Because the Thunderchild is certainly one lucky ship."


	11. Chapter 11

**Saeva Abyssi Chapter 11**

Gamma swung the axe hard and the air sang as it sailed by. His opponent ducked and the blade passed over his head, whistling past harmlessly. Gamma pulled back but his opponent was already leaping at him with twin blades extended towards his heart. Gamma snarled angrily as he met the strike with the haft of his axe and brought the pommel about to throw the foe away. The opponent hit the ground and rolled, coming back to his feet with fluid grace. The two circled looking for an opening, then they moved. The foe came at him in a blur of flashing knives, a dizzying ballet of silver cuts. Gamma however merely let go one hand from his axe and backhanded his foe across the bare face, sending him crashing to the deck. Before the enemy could rise again Gamma placed his blade across his neck and snarled, "You're dead."

From the mat Delta raised his hands and said, "So I am, well done Brother."

Gamma snorted and stepped back as Delta picked himself up from the deck and collected his knives, then he said, "Again?"

Delta shook his head and said, "Give me five minutes; you're really going for it. What's got into you?"

Gamma snarled, "That superior cur Dramaq, I've seen the way he looks at me. We both know it will come down to him or me at some point."

Delta rubbed his sore jaw and said, "I think he's going to be unpleasantly surprised when that happens."

Gamma shook off the compliment, Delta was his cell-Brother but he was also the best infiltrator in the cell which made him a slimy weasel. There were few inviolable bonds within the Alpha Legion but the brotherhood within a cell was one of them. Gamma however didn't care much about anything beyond the next fight; he respected his Brothers for their skills but didn't think of them as friends. Gamma looked about the quarters they had been granted on the Dark Eldar ship, stripped bare of the obscene furniture that they had smashed upon arrival. He and Delta were training on a bare patch of deck while the others did their own thing. Beta was meditating in a corner with his staff by his side and his helm off. Epsilon was fussing over some bulky device on the floor; he was the cell's tech-expert and was as skilled with machines as Delta was at slipping in somewhere he shouldn't be.

Gamma shook his head and said, "I don't like any of this, making deals with Xenos, sitting around while others fight… it isn't right."

Delta remarked, "You agreed to the plan."

Gamma knew he was right, the Alpha Legion didn't believe in rigid orders or mindless obedience. Plans were thrashed out as a group, debated and queried in a way no other Astartes would tolerate. Beta may be the cell-leader and had trained them all since induction, but they were not mindless drones like the Imperial lapdogs.

Delta stepped up and said quietly, "Gamma look at this."

Gamma glanced down and saw Delta had pulled of a gauntlet, revealing a nasty scar on his right hand. He raised an eyebrow and said, "I don't remember you taking a wound there."

Delta shook his head and said, "I didn't, I did that myself."

"Why?" Gamma asked.

Delta answered, "After that infiltration into the Pit of Galeshi. You know where we summoned those Daemons to overrun the defences, something started growing there. I think it was an extra finger… or a tentacle."

Gamma spat, "Chaos taint, we have to be wary of such things."

"Why though?" asked Delta looking doubtful, "I cut it out naturally but afterwards I felt weaker for it. I started to wonder, why can't we take the power of Chaos for ourselves? Why not embrace the Dark Gods and their gifts?"

Gamma didn't rebuke him but said in a rare moment of introspection, "Sometimes in battle I hear a voice, offering me power and might. Offering me the power that comes from the Blood God and the strength that comes from the Skull Throne."

From the corner Beta spoke up and said, "Do not heed the lies of Daemons, they offer pretty baubles but what they want in return is everything."

Delta looked at him and said in annoyance, "You take their power for yourself, why can't we?"

Beta sighed and stood up, he shook out his neck and replied, "Chaos is a tool to be used and discarded as any other, but only with extreme caution. Daemons will do anything to gain control over us and we must always be wary of what they offer. The power I take from them is only that which I can master, no more. I determine my own fate, as does this Legion. We are one, a union of the like and like-minded, the Legion is all and we are all Legion. We serve ourselves and each other, not some Dark God."

Delta growled, "Was that from the teachings of the twin Primarchs?"

Beta replied, "Alpharius and Omegan were disloyal curs, but they got that right at least."

Delta commented, "I have never understood your vehemence for the Primarchs."

Beta replied nonchalantly, "It hardly matters now."

From the corner Epsilon said without looking up from his workings, "I thought we were a Brotherhood of equals."

Beta looked at them all and then sighed as he said, "You really want to know?"

"Yes" spat Delta.

Beta drew in a breath and said, "It all goes back to the Great Crusade, it was moving too fast you see, too hastily. Behind the front lines rebellion and sedition seethed. The other Legions thought they left order in their wake but it was all a sham, as soon as their eyes moved on rebellions inevitably erupted. The XXth were made to fight those unseen battles, the shadow campaigns that the other legions didn't care about. For every rebellion those drama-queens in the VIIIth put down we nipped a hundred in the bud. But unlike them we moved in silence and few even knew of our existence, only Malcador and his ilk. To them were the Harrowing, the Combine, the Threefold Path and the Azure Serpent. We earned no glory, no renown or titles, even honour was denied us, there was only the mission and its completion. Yet the one thing we had was our brotherhood, our family."

Despite himself Gamma was intrigued, Beta rarely spoke of his past, so he said, "Then came Alpharius and Omegan."

Beta nodded, "Yes and at first it was wondrous, our twin fathers so like us not only in body but in mind and soul too. They thought like we did, moved like we did and their strategies were flawless in planning and execution. They led us into the light, to stand alongside the other Legions, though those Glory-hogs never respected us. Those self-righteous curs looked down their noses at us and sneered at our methods, as if they could grasp the number of their messes we had been sent to clean up."

Epsilon said sadly, "They didn't understand, they never understand."

Beta sighed and said, "The other Legions thought we were unsound, that our methods were suspect. Guilliman even said we should be withdrawn from the front lines and sent to Macragge for retraining. So we redoubled our efforts, seeking to prove our value and worth. It was after the defeat of the Ak'Haireth bone drinkers that we discovered a great opportunity, a Xeno race that existed in the form of a sentient virus. One that would infect whole worlds, turning the people to its service before killing them. Alpharius and Omegan were delighted; they immediately ordered us to start introducing the virus to several imperial colonies."

Delta sounded surprised and said, "Wait, weren't we fighting for the Imperium at that point?"

Gamma snorted and said, "What use would it be to defeat a foe no one knows about? First you build up the threat and then you sweep in like a hero."

Beta nodded and said, "Yes, in the Long View it was for the good of the Imperium, Terra had to be reminded why they needed us. But then something went wrong, a cell just disappeared, the Unbroken Chain. Alpharius said it was not a matter of concern but something about it nagged at me and I took the initiative to go track them down. I was horrified by what I found; the cell had been infected by the virus and then Alpharius had secretly purged them himself."

Epsilon didn't bother to look up as he said, "A corrupted cell got purged, so what?"

Beta snarled, "Because the Primarchs hid it from us, they didn't trust us. That's when I realised the truth: the Primarchs only purged the cell once they had fulfilled their mission. Once they were satisfied that the virus had served its purpose."

Epsilon's head snapped up and he said, "Wait, they infected the cell deliberately? Why would they do that?"

Gamma spat in disgust, "Because the Imperium doesn't care about a few human worlds, what are billion dead colonists to Terra? But a virus that could corrupt Astartes, now that's an enemy to be feared."

Delta said as understanding dawned, "If the Alpha Legion defeated such a foe then we would be heroes, there would be no more talk of us being lesser than the other Legions. The Primarchs corrupted their own sons just to prove a point."

Beta continued his tale, "Aye, Alpharius and Omegan didn't care about any of us. Our trust and brotherhood were the only things we had and it meant nothing to either of them. Gods below Malcador showed more concern for our dead than those two. I realised then that we were nothing but tools to the twin Primarchs, to be used and discarded without a second's thought. Don't get me wrong, sacrifice was no stranger to the Legions but Alpharius and Omegan betrayed our Brotherhood, they would have cast-off all of us for their own selfish advancement. For the sake of my brothers, for the sake of the Legion, they had to go. The Primarchs had to be eliminated before they got us all killed."

Delta nodded in understanding and said, "The Legion is all and we are all Legion."

Gamma shook his head and was about to ask what they were going to do now, but then there was a chime from Epsilon's equipment and he exclaimed, "Finally."

Gamma looked over and said, "What is it?"

Epsilon explained, "My data-thieves have accessed the Dark Eldar's primary cogitators."

Gamma was surprised and said, "When did you insert those?"

Epsilon smirked and said, "Athra J'rect should be more careful about who he lets touch his bridge consoles, you never know what some unscrupulous knave might do when he's not looking."

Everybody chuckled at that and Beta asked, "Can you access the ship's layout and find the Farseer's quarters?"

Epsilon bent over his device and said, "Xeno technology is weird, half the control interfaces seem to be in their heads. Still a cogitator is a cogitator; the systems are not unfamiliar, weapons, life support, Auspex. Ah, here I've found it, a complete schematic of the ship. By the Gods below how many slave pens do they need, they take up half the ship. Wait, wait there it is, the Farseer's quarters."

"Excellent work," declared Beta, "It's time to make our move, Delta go retrieve the prize from the Farseer's quarters, while Epsilon secures us a transport. Gamma and I will keep up appearances for the Dark Eldar's benefit."

The cell nodded in compliance but Gamma scowled and said, "What of the Storm Heralds?"

Beta cocked his head and said, "What of them? They don't matter, those nobodies are completely insignificant. Even Terra doesn't think they are worth exterminating. We will leave the lapdogs and the Xenos to each other's tender mercies while we make our escape."

Gamma growled, "I can't believe we're letting them live… again. "

Delta interjected, "Think of it this way, once we get the prize we will need someone to test it on. The Storm Heralds are as good a victim as any."

Now Gamma grinned and said, "That I like."

Beta put his helm on and said, "Good, now let's get to it, it's time that the Alpha Legion claims its true place as the supreme force in the galaxy."


	12. Chapter 12

**Saeva Abyssi Chapter 12**

Captain Toran felt the Thunderchild lurch beneath him, a sudden roll to port that swayed him to the side and sent Serfs stumbling. He held on as the bridge crew responded, firing thrusters to right the ship and bring it level once more. As the ship settled Toran looked up into the grainy Hololith, seeing their position relative to the floating rock formations nearby. They were currently being pushed by the winds towards a large rock, one formed like a stalactite,

This had been the pattern for days now, the Thunderchild running from cover to cover, dashing between sheltering rock formations. For three days the crew had rotated through their stations, anxiously awaiting the slightest hint of their pursuers. None dared to believe that they had given the Dark Eldar the slip and the exuberance of their first victory had swiftly dwindled back to a fearful, worried manner. Now serfs went about their tasks with a quick, furtive manner and frequently patted the consoles as if trying to garner some of the ship's luck for themselves. The Space Marines however stood resolutely at their posts, refusing to show any hint of concern. They had been on high alert for three days straight, but that was hardly an issue for them. Among their implants was the Catalepsean Node, which allowed them to rest portions of their brains while remaining alert and active. Thus it was possible for them to operate continuously in combat-conditions, an essential feature in starship warfare where battles could last days or weeks. Currently Toran was guiding the Thunderchild around the floating rock formations, maintaining a careful balance between hiding in their mass shadows and staying far enough away to avoid a collision.

Toran called, "Helm, give me ninety-second burn from the port thrusters, move us laterally to avoid that rock."

From the Helm Furion called, "Captain, a three-second burst from the main drives could do the same job far quicker."

Toran shook his head and said, "Too risky, the energy flare would give away our location. Keep on thrusters only, they're far harder to detect in this fog of an atmosphere."

Furion enacted the order and Toran turned to the Sensorium calling, "Any sign of the enemy?"

Persion replied, "Hard to see anything in this soup. We are picking several imaging effects, but they keep appearing and disappearing. I think it's merely sensor ghosts but I can't be sure."

Toran remarked, "Dark Eldar do not give up the chase so easily, they will still be out there."

Persion mused, "So why can't we see them anymore?"

Toran answered, "They must have wised up and turned off their holographic camouflage."

"Great," muttered Persion, "Give me dumb Orks any day."

Toran shook his head and watched as the Thunderchild slipped past the looming rock, the size and bulk of it seemingly impossible. It shouldn't be able to hang there, but it did so regardless, mocking any human sense of proportion with its craggy cliff faces. Toran was carefully watching for any sign of the enemy, alert for the potential of a trap but then he was distracted by a thrumming noise from behind him. He glanced back and saw Magos Castabore floating next to the command dais, clutching a data slate in one metal hand. Toran was surprised to see her and asked, "Magos, is there something the matter?"

Castabore replied briskly, "I am detecting something quite anomalous. It is coming from the rock we are in close proximity to. The Auspex is detecting traces of refined metals and indications of previous mining upon its surface."

Toran frowned and said, "Are you saying that there is someone living there?"

Castabore replied, "No, there are no indications of active power sources or gaseous exchanges, if there was someone there then they are long gone."

Toran said, "Well that's interesting but hardly relevant to our situation."

Castabore snapped, "I don't think you grasp the implications, the technology required to reach this depth is rare and exotic. There are no records of any mining expeditions attempted into Astu, implying that the originators were pre-Imperial or older, possibly even originating in the Dark Age of Technology."

Toran said, "You think there could be Archeo-technology over there?"

"Yes," Castabore replied, "The pressure at this depth is not insurmountable, if those Xeno glass-hulls can survive here then your Thunderhawks and power armour could withstand it too. I request you launch an expedition immediately."

Toran glared and said, "Absolutely not, we are at war, we do not have time to poke around in old ruins."

Castabore protested angrily, "The quest for knowledge…"

"Can wait," Toran snapped back, "First we have to survive and then we can worry about the mysteries of the Omnissiah. Besides its been there for millennia, it can wait a little longer."

Castabore sank back muttering to herself and Toran looked back at the Hololith, seeing that the Thunderchild was coming around the rock to reveal what lay beyond. His eyes scoured the fitzing display and he realised that it was not good news. Before them lay a featureless wasteland, an empty space bereft of the floating rocks that they had been hopping using for cover. It was open, exposed and offered no shelter whatsoever. Toran bit his lip in frustration, then said, "Persion, any sign how far this extends?"

Persion looked over a Servitor's shoulder and said, "There are suggestions of mass-shadows in the distance, it could be more floating rocks, but it's a long way to go."

Furion called up, "Captain, we could reverse course and look for another route that offers more cover."

"No," Toran said shaking his head, "The Dark Eldar are experienced hunters, they will be expecting us to double-back. Neither can we sit here forever; the anti-gravs will fail eventually. We have to press on and find a way to escape, forward is the only option."

Furion nodded and said, "So fast or slow?"

Toran thought about it and knew it was a difficult choice; the quickest way across the expanse was to use the main drives. They could cross the gap rapidly and slip back into cover, but that would send out a flare that their hunters could not possibly miss if they were anywhere nearby. The alternative was to go deeper, crawling along on thrusters and wind currents, trying to go unnoticed and praying to avoid detection. But it would take days to cross such a distance, putting the hull under tremendous pressure and every second would increase the chances of being detected anyway. Toran made a decision and declared, "It's time to be bold, power up the drives and give me best possible speed."

Furion replied, "Aye sir, but we'd go a hell of a lot faster with eight working reactors."

"Can't be helped," Toran stated, "Persion keep a sharp eye on those sensor ghosts, I want to know it one of them so much as twitches. Weapons to alert, we may need them."

With a rattling vibration the Thunderchild sprang into life, building up speed as its drives pushed it forward. The deck shook and lurched as the ship ploughed forwards, emerging from the shelter into open space. With its prow parting the gaseous clouds the Thunderchild raced into the expanse, leaving swirling billows of gas in her wake. Toran gripped the rail and held on, staring into the Hololith and the jumping icons displayed there. Auspex clarity was poor and it was fitzing constantly, but it was all they had. He stared at the icons knowing that any one of them could be an enemy ship and if they were then there was no way that they could miss the emissions of the main drives. He wondered how long it would take to cross the expanse, how it was far to the next cover and the dubious safety it offered.

From below the dais Magos Castabore called, "I am detecting build-ups of chemicals and free oxygen off the starboard bow. I would advise steering clear, the mix could potentially prove… explosive."

Toran accepted her advice and said, "Helm steer to port, give it a wide berth and keep us…."

Suddenly Persion yelled, "Contact, contact! Enemy ship detected and its right above us!"

"Evasive Action!" roared Toran but it was too late.

The Thunderchild rocked as a Phantom Lance speared downwards, plunging deeply into the armoured hull. Plating was torn asunder and compartments ruptured to spill bodies and debris out into the atmosphere. Even those out of the area were not spared as the atmosphere poured in, poisoning men with noxious gases and crushing their lungs as blast doors sealed off the breached sections. Toran was clinging to the rail and felt the Thunderchild rocking badly. He looked up at the Hololith and saw the Dark Eldar craft flash past, all curves and spikes with wide wings spread out to either side. He drew in a breath and yelled, "Damage report, how badly were we hit? Did we lose any anti-gravs?"

Bylan called back "+Damage to dorsal sections only, anti-gravs were undamaged. We have several ruptured compartments, still estimating casualties+"

Toran gritted his teeth and shouted, "Where's the enemy?"

Persion replied, "It's difficult to track them but it looks like their moving to starboard, their coming about for another run."

Toran growled, "The hell they are, starboard batteries, track that target and fire!"

The Thunderchild roared in fury as its starboard flank lit up, throwing waves of macro cannons shells and missiles into the distance. It was a furious barrage but still barely half the might the ship would have boasted at full power. The rounds hurtled outwards into the distance, flying free as they fell away into the depths.

Toran called, "Did we hit anything?"

Persion replied, "No signs of impact: we missed. Auspex is hazy but they're definitely closing."

Toran snarled, "Torpedoes?"

Novak cried, "We can't get an angle."

Toran hit the rail and barked, "Push the drives harder, increase our speed."

But Furion called back, "Power levels are fluctuating, we're already at maximum."

Toran gnashed his teeth in frustration, they couldn't run and they couldn't hit anything in this murk. Everything seemed stacked against them, the Dark Eldar didn't need to do much, the damned planet was killing them all by itself. Then Toran had an idea, a way to fight back and he called, "Track Bombardment canons to starboard, elevate forty-five degrees and set warheads for thirty seconds delay."

Jediah sounded puzzled as he said, "There's no target there."

"Trust me," Toran said, then held for a moment as the canons pivoted before shouting, "Fire!"

The Thunderchild rocked again as her spinal canons spat enormous shells off into the distance, flying away in long arcs. The salvo of city-killing Magma-Bombs went wide, completely missing the Dark Eldar craft which seemed almost contemptuous as it glided past on its wide wings. The craft bore down upon its victim with savage glee, Phantom Lance glimmering with deadly power as it prepared to fire. Yet had its crew known what Toran intended then they would not have been so confident.

The Magma-Bombs soared onwards, travelling freely until they encountered the oxygen pocket and detonated. The heat and power of the blast reacted instantly with the oxygen-chemical mix, exploding like a fuel-air bomb the size of a city block. An enormous fireball bloomed into being, spreading like a flower opening and sending a tremendous shockwave out before it. The Thunderchild was thrown violently to one side by the force of the blast, making men fall to the deck with cries of terror and shock. Toran could do nothing but hold on as the wave passed over the Thunderchild, making it heave but thankfully doing no further damage. Then it rolled back upright, battered but unbowed.

The crew picked themselves up and limped back to their posts, taking up the reins left idle as Toran called, "Where are the Dark Eldar?"

Persion replied, "They were thrown halfway across the sky, they're beating a swift retreat to safer altitudes."

"Then get us back on course before they return," ordered Toran and as the crew responded he muttered to himself, "It's like fighting with one arm tied behind our backs, Hevostan has to get reactor eight working or we will never make it out of here."


	13. Chapter 13

**Saeva Abyssi Chapter 13**

The Engineerium of the Thunderchild was a place of secular power and religious mysticism, the rigid application of logic going hand in hand with dogmatic scriptures laid down in ancient times. Serfs toiled over stuttering coolant systems and sparking power conduits while ordained clergy sang appeasing chants and applied soothing unguents. Prayers to the Omnissiah were laced with the hammering of tools and the hissing of venting steam. Cyber-cherubs flew overhead in mathematically perfect patterns while clergy tended to aching Machine Spirits and performed Sacramental-diagnostics on weary devices.

The forty-first millennium was filled with such paradoxes, to most science and technology were arcane and dark arts, best left to those ordained to deal with such matters. Not only to produce and maintain technology but to keep it shackled and restrained. Humanity had seen first-hand what happened when machines were allowed to run rampant and the race memory ran deep. If humanity was to once more claim the stars then it would be with their own blood, sweat and tears. So matters of technology were left to the Adeptus Mechanicus, to its Magi, Adepts, Enginseers and of course the Techmarines. One such being was currently stood in the Engineerium, Techmarine Hevostan and he was cautiously looking up at the towering bulk of Plasma-Reactor Eight.

Hevostan was clad in his red armour, bedecked with icons of Mars and with eldritch tools hung around his belt while a Servo-claw hung over his shoulder. He stood contemplating the giant device, looking over its round bulk and the profusion of pipes and cables that made it look like a Boabab tree from his homeworld. Like its seven siblings this was a Ryza Mark IVb Genatorum, a pattern not produced in the Imperium for at least four thousand years. It was a most potent device, far more puissant than the inferior models produced in this lesser age, but the price was a most stubborn and cantankerous Spirit. The other seven Plasma-reactors required careful tending and ministrations but they performed beautifully. Number Eight however seemed to be stubborn to the core, a most obdurate and intractable beast that refused to cooperate. Time after time the Rites of Awakening went well but whenever it was asked to perform above the barest minimum it would reject all entreaties and lock itself into safety-modes.

Hevostan had run full diagnostics sweeps and had sent servitors into the maintenance crawl-ways to inspect the interior. He had sung shooting chants and applied appeasing unguents, he had debugged the Holy software and affixed purity seals. He had even hit it with a thrice-blessed silver hammer and intoned the ancient, revered litany of all Enginseers since the dawn of metalwork, 'Work, you bloody stupid thing, why won't you work!'

Hevostan loathed to admit it but he was beginning to suspect that the Serfs were right about this reactor, maybe it was jinked or even cursed. The Techmarine had been taught that all Machines had their own quirks and characteristics, some were proud and haughty, some only worked when primed with odd settings or were thumped in just the right way, and some were just absolute bitches. Number Eight seemed to be fitting into the last category, a wilful and spite filled old monster that spurned any attempt to form a bond with it. Hevostan's musings were interrupted by a cough and a small voice saying, "Master, all is ready."

The Techmarine glanced to the side and saw one of his Lay-adepts cowering next to him, fretfully wringing his hands. Hevostan hadnt bothered to learn his name, organics seemed to wear out so fast these days. He merely nodded and followed the Lay-adept to a large alter that had been set up before Reactor Eight. Upon the altar lay a silver thurible and ewer along with a pair of incense sticks, long vestments and a control panel. Hevostan strode up to the altar and contemplated what he was about to do. The Mass he was about to perform was rare and dangerous, considered a last resort among the Tech-Priests. Hevostan however was out of options, he had tried everything else and frankly he was getting desperate. If this didn't work then he would have to condemn the Reactor as unsound and decommission its Spirit back to the Omnissiah.

The Lay-adept quivered, "Master, is there a problem?"

Hevostan shook off his reluctance and said, "No, let us begin."

The Techmarine shrugged on the long vestment over his armour and lit the sacred incense, giving off a familiar oily scent. Then he took up the ewer and poured a thick lubricant out into the thurible. He took it up into his hands while his lay-adept stood at the console and then he began a binary chant of blessing. The Mass was deceptively simple, once Hevostan was done the Lay-adept would flash-shunt the fuel lines, blasting the reaction chamber and forcing the reactor into activity. Hevostan was about to begin when the Lay-adept frowned and began tapping the console with a knuckle. Hevostan scowled and snapped, "What is it?"

The Lay-adept sounded unsure but said, "Master, I was running final scans and there is an anomaly. Foreign matter appears to be lodged in the mechanism… it reads as organic."

"Organic?" spat Hevostan, "Impossible!"

"Yes, yes of course," cowered the Lay-adept, "I apologise Master."

Hevostan sighed with resignation, and set down the thurible, "Pause the Rite, I will look into it."

"But Master," protested the Lay-adept, "Wouldn't a servitor be more appropriate?"

Hevostan shook his head and said, "No, if I must condemn this Machine's Spirit I want to know I tried everything else first."

Hevostan set off briskly and strode up to Reactor Eight, opening a service hatch on its side. He poked his head inside and found a small crawl-way, running around the reaction chamber. He forced his armoured shoulders inside and pulled himself in, it was a tight fit for a Space Marine and he had to walk with a stoop. Hevostan awkwardly forced himself along the narrow tunnel, his long vestments catching on protruding points and causing him to mutter curses about the unreliability of organics and the stupidity of Lay-adepts. It was hot inside the crawl-way, the heat bleeding off from the reaction chamber being shunted through here as part of the coolant systems. Even his armour was registering dangerous levels of heat, the Ceramite plates would be safe but the flexible fibre-bundle musculature between them was a different story. Hevostan checked his seals and found them to be at the limit, but holding their integrity for now.

Hevostan was about a third of the way around the bulk of the reactor when he spotted something odd. He was approaching a large ion-flow regulator, a part of the coolant system that would deliver a stream of frozen particles into the reaction chamber. It should be glowing with energy but it was in fact dead and silent. Hevostan was aghast; no wonder the old monster had refused to run at full capacity, without this regulator operational it would overheat catastrophically. Had Hevostan forced through the Mass he would have blown up most of the ship.

Hevostan didn't understand how this could have happened; the regulator was fool-proof and thrice blessed. Then he looked underneath and he found his answer. Nestled among the pipes and cables was a nest of dead vermin, small furry rodent bodies laid out in a pile of burnt flesh. They were surrounded by chewed cables, thermal insulation having being gnawed away by large teeth. Hevostan realised that the vermin must have set up a nest here while the Thunderchild was in its long storage, then been roasted to death when the ship was recommissioned and the reactor awoken. The rodents had chewed away essential cables, rendering the regulator useless and crippling Reactor Eight, but why hadn't it shown up on the diagnostics?

He glanced to one side and saw that the vermin had also chewed at the sensor cables. Not enough to sever them and trigger an alert but just enough to make them malfunction and report false All-clear readings. Hevostan cursed the idiocy of the Servitors who had inspected this section and missed this. He also swore to find the serf overseeing them and have him clean every inch of the old monster with a toothbrush as penance. It should only take him a year or two but that would give Hevostan time to come up with something really nasty to follow it up with.

With a mutter Hevostan leaned in and began soldering the cables back together, then spraying them with a quick setting thermal insulation foam. It was only the work of a few minutes to repair the fault and get the regulator working again. He sat back in satisfaction and watched the regulator power up, chilled-ions flowing freely. His congratulations were short lived however when an alarm began to ring and an alert flashed up in his helm. Number Eight was engaging a flash-purge of the reaction chamber, it was about to flood the crawl-way with temperatures that even he couldn't survive: the old monster was trying to kill him!

Hevostan swore loudly and hurried back the way he had come, dashing along awkwardly in a crouch. The Temperatures were soaring already and even with his enhanced physiology sweat broke out over his whole body. The crawl-way was narrow, low and filled with obstacles, slowing him down as he attempted to escape. The walls started to glow cherry-red and Hevostan swore as the long vestments over his armour burst into flames, incinerated by sheer heat. He tore the robe from his body and redoubled his efforts but kept being blocked by odd protuberances and tripping over pipes. He had known that the reactor was a cantankerous bitch but now he was certain that the old monster really hated him.

Hevostan's armour was shimmering with heat now and his seals were on the verge of breaching, he was seconds away from being burnt to death. He checked the distance to the hatch and saw it was still fifty metres away, he wasn't going to make it. Suddenly Hevostan lurched as the floor beneath him fell away, a panel opening under his feet and dropping him into darkness. Hevostan fell helplessly for a second then was startled when he hit a pool of liquid, submerged entirely in its embrace. Hevostan trashed for a moment but ceased when he detected that the temperature was dropping around him, encasing him in freezing liquid. The Techmarine realised that he was in a sump of emergency coolant, a pool of super-chilled liquid.

The pool vibrated as Number Eight powered up and Hevostan ducked back under the surface, sheltering from the furious heat above. He stayed submerged for long minutes and as he did so he had time to review what had happened. He had known the sump was there but the panel shouldn't have opened when it did, this seemed almost deliberate. Could it be he wondered, could the Old Monster have actually chosen to save his life?

Hevostan was left with his thoughts for long minutes as the reactor roared around him and then it died back to normal levels. The Techmarine cautiously emerged and stuck his head out of the hole, finding the crawl-way to be hot but not unbearably so. He climbed out of the sump, dripping thick coolant and he made his way back to the exterior, finding the serfs milling about in confusion.

The Lay-adept saw him emerge, covered in slimy muck and cried, "Master, we thought you were dead!"

Hevostan shook off their concerns and said, "I am fine, what are you doing standing about, get back to work!"

As the serfs dashed back to their posts, Hevostan turned about and looked at the soaring bulk of Plasma-Reactor Eight. It sat there quietly purring to itself and running smoothly. Perhaps it was all in Hevostan's mind, but to him it was looking slightly smug and self-satisfied, like a lion that had just had a thorn pulled from its paw.

The Techmarine laid a hand upon its flank and whispered, "Well, well not such an old monster after all. Maybe you and I can find an understanding, eh?" and then he smiled as the reactor engaged fully and began its labours.


	14. Chapter 14

**Saeva Abyssi Chapter 14**

Across the empty expanse of bare sky the Thunderchild advanced, pushing clouds of gas out of its way as it ploughed along. Her armoured flanks cut through the atmosphere with unstoppable momentum, scars displayed for all to see, but despite her wounding she remained proud and defiant. The Thunderchild was moving with intense speed and purpose, making no attempt to hide its presence at all. It was a brave charge and yet she was not headed forward, instead she had reversed her course and was now returning to her previous position.

On her bridge Captain Toran was standing proudly, observing the crew as they went about their duties. He could feel the deck vibrating beneath him and would have sworn that the Thunderchild felt more confident, more powerful and vibrant. Hevostan had finally brought all eight reactors to full potency and the ship was filled with new, vibrant life, like a colt discovering that it can gallop. Toran heard a heavy tread behind him and knew that Chaplain Wrethan was approaching. The Chaplain cut a grim figure in his skull-masked helm but his words were cautious as he said, "This is a dangerous move Toran, the Dark Eldar will not have gone far."

Toran heard the reproach but answered, "Wars are not won with timidity but bold action. We know where the enemy is so we hold the advantage."

Wrethan commented, "Then I shall pray to the Divine-Emperor for His favour, I suspect we shall need it."

Toran nodded respectfully as the Chaplain strode away, he didn't share Wrethan's religious fervour but he knew not to make any objections. Instead he inspected the bridge and called, "All stations, status report."

From the helm Furion called, "That extra power is working wonders; the helm has never been so responsive."

Novak reported from the Ordnance Pulpit, "Everything is ready here sir, just waiting for your order."

From the Gunnery Pews Jediah called, "Weapon batteries are fully powered up, it's a wondrous thing to behold Captain."

Persion reported, "No contacts yet, but there are a lot of sensor ghosts out there. Anyone of them could be an enemy."

Then Bylan stated, "+Reactors running smoothly and damage control teams are on high alert, void shields active+"

Toran looked over at the drifting form of Castabore and said, "Magos?"

"No dangerous gas emissions detected, skies are clear," Castabore reported then she looked up and said, "Since we are on a vector back to our previous location I must repeat my request to explore the unusual rock formation. The possible discoveries could be of immense worth to the Emperor and His Imperium."

Toran noted the phrasing the Magos used, Emperor instead of Omnissiah and knew Castabore was trying to appeal to his organic nature. He had to admit that he was curious about what was out there, in a life of battle a Space Marine rarely had time for the joy of simple exploration, but as always duty had to come first. Toran shook off his sentiments and replied vaguely, "If there's time Magos, if there's time. Let us worry about surviving the next few hours before we think about anything else."

Castabore sank back and Toran was left to watch bridge operations at work. The Serfs seemed cautiously optimistic, wary of danger but determined to meet it head-on. It was a good sign, Space Marines could be counted on to show resolution at all times but the crew of the Thunderchild were only human. In the blind, claustrophobic world below decks, trust and morale were everything. A crew that might panic in combat was worthless, but one that could carry out orders under fire would triumph. Toran was pleased to see that the mortals were coming to work as a team, one filled with confidence and trust. The fires of battle had united them, the shared dangers, losses and victories forging them into one unbreakable body, an alloy that would endure anything the universe could throw at them.

Toran was distracted though as he saw Persion examining a console, brow scowled in concentration and the Captain called, "Problem?"

Persion looked concerned as he said, "Captain, we're detecting movement out there. Sensor ghosts are swirling all around us, I think we've picked up a tail."

Toran gripped the rail in anticipation and ordered, "Steady as she goes men, keep us on course."

Long seconds passed and the bridge went silent, every man fretfully waiting for any sign of the enemy. Toran was staring fixedly into the Hololith, searching for the first hint of movement, any indication that the Dark Eldar had guessed their intent and were laying in wait. The tension filled the bridge, making Toran's trigger finger itch and he felt a cold shiver creep down his spine. The minutes dragged past and slowly the distant rock formations beyond the expanse came into view. Just as Toran was about to think that they had crossed the gap unmolested there was a blip on the Hololith and Persion yelled, "Contact off the starboard stern. We have a Dark Eldar frigate closing fast!"

Toran immediately cried, "Hard-to-starboard, bring the broadsides to bear!"

The whole ship rolled as the roaring thrusters heaved it about, bringing the stacked ranks of the weapon batteries around to point at the closing craft. It was a desperate race, the Dark Eldar vessel moving swiftly and effortlessly on black wings, closing in even as the Thunderchild lumbered about. Toran bit his tongue as he waited for the angles to line up and then he cried, "Give them a broadside!"

The right hull of the Thunderchild lit up as the broadside roared from its flank, a solid wall of macrocannons , missiles, plasma, turbolasers and grav-beamers all spitting fury at the incoming enemy. It was a colossal volley, the full power of the ship at last being unleashed and anything it hit would surely be annihilated. Unfortunately the Dark Eldar responded with inhuman speed, spreading their craft's wings wide and lifting them up like a bird in flight. The volley passed underneath the craft, which soared on in mocking contempt, its phantom lance gleaming with accursed power.

On the bridge Jediah called, "The target evaded, we did no damage at all."

Toran could see that for himself and the Serfs grew agitated but it was Wrethan who stepped forwards and declared, "Steady men of the Imperium. Be brave for every man must inevitably face the hour of his testing and this is ours."

With the Chaplain reaffirming their spirits the crew watched the enemy closing. This was the most dangerous moment, the foe's speed and power perilous indeed, one solid hit on the anti-gravs and it was all over. Toran stood silently as the Xeno craft dove towards them, waiting, just waiting with steely resolve, then he saw the moment was right and he shouted, "Novak, send the signal!"

In the Ordnance Pulpit Novak began shouting, "All Thunderhawk squadrons, the enemy has taken the bait! Attack, attack attack!"

From out of the billowing clouds behind the Thunderchild emerged a series of tiny darts, small black specks travelling on contrails of rocket exhaust. They flew in three waves of staggered V-shapes, riding the slipstream with their blocky prows pointed straight at the enemy. Their fuselages creaked and groaned from the atmospheric pressure, but Thunderhawks were built for combat and the reinforced armour held firm. Toran watched in the Hololith as they soared away, knowing that the ruse had worked. The size and power of the Thunderchild had been an irresistible lure but also the perfect cover. The flare of her engines and the wake of her passage had served to disguise the presence of the gunships and now the foe was too close to evade.

The Thunderhawks flew right at the Dark Eldar craft, which tried to pirouette away, tilting its wings to pull it hard to port. Yet the gunships were too close already and the pilots were not prepared to let their target flee. They pounced like eagles on the hunt, wingtips leaving swirling contrails and Turbolasers thrumming with stored power. Fitted as replacements for the standard battle cannons, they had been intended for training purposes but now served to turn the gunships into light-bombers. A flash of light heralded the gunships opening fire, it was barely a fraction of the might of the Thunderchild but it was from a much closer range and far more accurate. Spears of coherent light harpooned the Xeno craft, clipping its right wing with devastating might. Bracing struts shattered and membranes tore, leaving ragged holes in the wing that flapped free in the thick air.

The Dark Eldar did not take such an affront idly; instead they raised a forest of defence turrets and returned fire. Darts of Dark-Lance fire spat out, creating a deadly lattice of energy all around the gunships. They wove and they dodged randomly, seeking to avoid the deadly hail but so thick was the barrage that one of the Thunderhawks was clipped. Its hull was pierced by a single shot and the damage weakened its structural integrity. The Thunderhawk crumpled like a used ration tin as it was crushed down into a ball no bigger than a man's torso and the lump of metal fell away, spiralling down into the dark depths never to be seen again.

The remaining Thunderhawks blazed forward on trails of fire, eager to avenge their lost sibling and they closed to point-blank range. Once more their Turbolasers fired to tear at the same wing, carving great rents in it and causing the whole craft to wobble. The target was wounded but not dead and it responded with furious a retort. A veritable forest of Dark lance blasts rose into the turgid sky, seeking to swat the tiny gunships down. The Thunderhawks desperately bobbed and weaved in their attempts to evade, lurching back and forth but they refused to break off their attack run. They were to pay for their bravery and in quick succession three gunships were blown from the sky, flashing out of existence in brilliant balls of flame but still the remainder pressed their attack. Fire to the left of them and destruction to the right, boldly the Thunderhawks flew into the face of death and then they fired for a third time.

Spears of Turbolaser fire ripped into the right wing and this time they gouged a terrific wound into the supports. Sails tore and stanchions were sundered, causing the whole thing to rip backwards and with a horrifying screech the wing tore off. The Thunderhawks broke off and soared away triumphantly as the Dark Eldar craft went into a mad spin, doomed by the gravity that caught it and dragged it downwards. The craft's missing wing caused it to tumble, spinning it like a top as it twirled downwards. The crew inside were plastered to the bulkheads, crushed by centrifugal force and unable to do anything but scream as the increasing pressure of the depths cracked the hull. Then with a sharp snap the wraithbone hull shattered and the Dark Eldar craft imploded, crushed into a tiny ball of bone and blood.

On the Thunderchild's bridge the crew erupted into cheers and shouts of victory. Men punching the air and clapping each other on the backs as Chaplain Wrethan began a hymn of thanksgiving. Novak was grinning like a maniac and he called, "Captain, Thunderhawks report target destroyed, they request clearance to dock and refuel."

"By all means tell them to come home," replied Toran buoyantly, "And tell them that they have permission to add a new kill marking to their birds for this victory."

As the gunships returned home Persion looked up and said, "So... now what?"

Toran replied, "Now we have the time to head back and have a look at that strange rock the good Magos was so interested in."

Persion blinked and said, "Pardon me, you want to go sightseeing?"

Toran shook his head and clarified, "No, I want us to send out a recon party to reconnoitre the landscape, besides there may be a use for that rock after all."


	15. Chapter 15

**Saeva Abyssi Chapter 15**

Arthra J'rect took a sip of his wine and his lips drew back as the acid flavour seared his tongue. He breathed in the fumes and felt a rush tingle up his spine as the hallucinogenic qualities tickled his hindbrain. It was an average vintage, laced with the tears of a Jokero but it helped pass a dull afternoon.

Athra lowered his goblet and looked about, taking in the sight of a variety of creatures being stretched out on excruciation racks. He was currently wandering the torture decks of his flagship, sampling what was on offer and inspecting the artwork of his crew. Athra J'rect was not content with merely feeding upon bland suffering; he demanded that his crew find new and inventive practices; to make their cruelties works of art as much as a source of sustenance. Unfortunately in this they were proving quite a disappointment. Athra sighed loudly and his companion looked up to say, "You are unsatisfied Archon?"

Athra looked over at his companions, the Haemonculi Vl'hyas and his bodyguard Dramaq. They were following him on his tour and watching the crew ply their craft upon the slaves all around them. Athra swept an arm around to take in the various actions of whips, knives and hooked chains as he said, "This is repetitive and clichéd, amateurish and overdone. It is the work of children, not the refined art of a superior culture."

Vl'hyas shrugged, making his hunchbacked spine sway and said, "Everybody has to start somewhere, I can teach your servants much better arts in time."

Athra sighed again and said, "Ah I miss your laboratories, the delights there are always fresh and inventive."

Vl'hyas bowed his head in acceptance of the compliment and said, "I do strive not to repeat myself."

Athra sighed sadly and said, "As I grow older I find that the simple pleasures lose their savour, banal entertainments no longer stir my spirit. I am growing jaded; everything is so dull and repetitive."

Vl'hyas said thoughtfully, "If you are bored I did bring several of my more robust creations along, that Gene-bulk always provides a few hours of delights. Astartes just never seem to reach their breaking point."

Athra however wasn't listening; he had paused at a particular excruciation rack and said, "Now, this shows promise."

Fixed to the rack was a Mon-Keigh male, manacled down to the table. Suspended over the animal was a Catachan Blackback viper, sedated to ensure that it didn't move. Its venom was being milked by a small device that caused poison to fall into the Mon-Keigh's eyes every few seconds, making it scream. The agony must have been unbearable, but to alleviate this, the creature's mate was standing next to it with a small bowl. The animal would catch the venom in the bowl to spare its mate, but only for so long before it was full. The bowl would have to be emptied and for a moment the venom would resume dripping onto the Mon-Keigh.

Athra laughed and declared, "Ah better, look at the use of compassion between them to heighten the experience. The use of positive emotions as a goad and the emphasis on negative space."

Vl'hyas agreed, saying, "The time between drops only adds to the fear."

Athra declared, "Find whose work this is and promote them."

Dramaq however growled, "Archon, you have a visitor."

Athra looked over to see a single being in white robes picking her way over to him, with a thin staff in one hand. She was stepping daintily and carefully holding up the hem of her attire, lest it be spoiled with the spilt bodily-fluids running over the deck. This one's face was hidden behind a high-crested helm but her psychic aura was unmistakable, it was the Farseer T'selia and Athra was delighted that she had emerged from her isolation. As she walked the various crew-members head's rose and bloodlust curdled in their eyes, the desire to capture her filling their rancid hearts. Yet a growl from Dramaq sent them cowering, none of them wanted to face an Incubus so for now Athra's guest was sacrosanct. Athra watched her approach and could feel the disdain pouring off her, the ire that her presence was necessary.

As the Farseer closed Athra made the third gesture of welcome, used for casual meetings of acquaintances and he said, "Welcome fair one, have you come to appreciate our humble arts?"

T'selia glanced at the cavalcade of nightmares all around and sneered, "You call this art?"

Athra smiled and gestured to one side saying, "Consider this piece here, a most vibrant and interesting work."

T'selia looked at the Mon-Keigh and projected a psychic aura of scorn but that was not all she revealed. Buried under her veneer of contempt was the slightest trace of satisfaction at seeing the Mon-Keigh's pain, a hint of approval and even pleasure at seeing the beast punished so. Athra hid his joy at the taste of her dark nature, she was trying to hide it but the flaw in her soul was growing to become a yawning pit of festering hatred. For a moment Athra considered snatching her up right now and binding her into a Talos pain engine but he suppressed the urge, there were far more sorrowful torments yet to be explored.

T'selia finally said, "It is nothing more than they deserve."

"Ah yes," said Athra, "Such a crude and unenlightened species. So warlike, conquering and destroying all in their path."

T'selia flinched slightly at that comment, but said, "I am not here to banter with you but to tell you that the Skein is shifting. The Mon-Keigh target fights on; they have already destroyed two of your frigates."

Athra waved away the concern and said, "Hardly a loss, those crews were not exactly my finest warriors."

T'selia's aura flared in annoyance and she spat, "Do not underestimate this foe, the futures twist around the target like river water around a large rock. There are even prospects where it kills all your escort ships."

Athra shrugged and said, "What of it, let the beasts grow confident with easy kills. Sooner or later they must emerge from the planet and when they do my cruisers will rip them to shreds."

T'selia snarled, "Your arrogance will be your downfall."

"Is that your foresight at work?" Athra retorted, "A shame it failed you at the hour of Idharae's need."

T'selia's head snapped around and she snarled, "How do you know about that?!"

Athra smirked and said, "I just know."

T'selia sounded suspicious as she said, "That Mon-Keigh sorcerer told you, didn't he?"

Athra cocked his head and said, "What of it?"

T'selia snarled, "You shouldn't trust him, he plotted to kill his own Gene-father."

Athra shrugged as he said, "Haven't we all?"

T'selia sounded surprised as she queried, "You killed your own father?"

"Yes of course," remarked Athra lightly, "And he died proud that I was keeping up a long family tradition."

T'selia shook her head and said, "I will never understand you Drukhai."

Athra smiled and said warmly, "Come tell me of your own home, tell me of the Craftworlds."

T'selia eyed him for a moment, as if searching for mockery in his tone and as she did so Athra noticed that she stroked her soul-stone in a protective gesture. Then T'selia unburdened herself saying, "Idharae was a shining jewel in the galactic east, launched at the very beginning of the exodus from the ancient empire of our common forefathers. We travelled far across the galaxy, searching for a sanctuary and learning the way of the Paths. We were never the largest of the Craftworlds but we held spiritual treasures from the Dawn Times and stood as proud as any other. Ah, the beauty of Idharae brought tears to the eye, the gentle agri-domes, the proud warrior shrines and the solitude to be found within the dome of crystal seers. And through it all the beloved whispers of our ancestor's spirits, resting within the Infinity Circuit."

"Sounds positively pastoral," commented Athra, "What went wrong?"

T'selia's tone darkened, "The Great Devourer came from the dark, feasting upon the Exodite worlds. We fought them back, we fought alongside Craftworlds Iyanden and Malant'ai to break their Hive mind. The victory was hard won but it left us weakened and vulnerable and then the Mon-Keigh struck. We saw it coming but there was no escape, no way to divert the threat. They smashed our diminished fleets aside and broke into own homes, making the Wraithbone scream with their clomping boots and booming guns. The Gene-bulks ran rampant through our beautiful home, they despoiled our shrines, smashed the crystal statues and broke the soul-stones. You cannot imagine the horror of it, to hear our ancestor's souls cast being into the Warp and to be consumed by She Who Thirsts."

"A tragedy indeed," Athra remarked, thinking more of the lost potential victims for his dungeons.

"The worst part is it could have been avoided," snarled T'selia not noticing, "Ten thousand years ago there was a plan to eradicate the Mon-Keigh. A Cabal of many races sought to destroy the race entirely in an attempt to erase Chaos itself."

Athra threw back his head and laughed, "Destroy Chaos? A fool's errand. Did they not know that it is impossible, at best they could have driven it into abeyance for another hundred millennia or so."

"That is not the point," growled T'selia, "They had the chance to destroy the Mon-Keigh but they were stopped. Stopped by one of our own Farseers, Eldrad Ulthran. The arrogant fool chose to let that filthy species survive, to lay down the lives of noble Eldar for generations to come. All in the name of his forlorn plan to awaken a new God. He should have let the flame of the Mon-Keigh gutter out before it grew into the inferno that consumed Idharae."

Athra mused, "It was my understanding that the Alaitoc claimed vengeance for the lost, cutting down the Invaders Chapter."

"Revenge?!" spat T'selia in a furious exclamation, "It was not enough, it will never be enough. Justice must be done; the entire filthy Mon-Keigh race must be exterminated! Extinction is all they deserve and I will make them pay for the dead of Idharae!"

With that cry T'selia's power was let slip, a surge of eldritch lightning running up her hands and along the length of her staff. In a flash of psychic light she unleashed her might, sending jagged arcs of energy to engulf the pair of Mon-Keigh animals. Blue flames roared and made all step back as the inferno raged for a single second etching shadows into the walls. Athra had to shield his eyes from the brilliance of the bonfire and he was amazed by the power on display, the might so carelessly unleashed. Then the fire cut off like a match being blown out, leaving only a pile of ash and bones as a testament to the Farseer's fury.

T'selia fell quiet and limp in shock of her own actions, breathing hard as her hand strayed to her soul-stone and stroked it for reassurance. Athra however was delighted by the rage and anger he had just witnessed, the Farseer's walls of self-control were crumbling and the power beyond was spilling out. Athra patiently watched T'selia calm down, the dam of her will was already fractured, now he just had to let her anger simmer and slowly build up again.

Softly he said, "I will help you, I will make this happen."

T'selia looked at Athra, her gaze mixed with suspicion, hope and just the tiniest hint of gratitude, a sign that she was starting to depend on him. Then she said, "You promise?"

"Of course," said Athra soothingly, "Witness how committed I am to the cause."

The Archon addressed Vl'hyas saying, "Are your creations ready for combat?"

The Haemonculi answered, "Yes, many of them."

"Good," declared Athra, "Then prepare to send them down to the frigates. It's time to get serious about this war."


	16. Chapter 16

**Saeva Abyssi Chapter 16**

The Thunderhawk drifted slowly through the dim, murky sky, coasting in only on vector thrust. Its movements were delicate and exaggerated, carefully chosen at each and every point. Before it rose the towering stalagmite of their destination, the drifting rock that stretched up as far as the eye could see and down into the inky black depths of the gas giant's atmosphere.

Standing in the Thunderhawk's cockpit Captain Toran was peering out of the window, examining their destination in minute detail. His augmetic eye cut through the cloying gases outside to reveal every pitted crag and abrasion on the rockface. He had an eager look about him, excited by the potential discoveries and the mysteries just waiting to be revealed. Suddenly his arm rose and he declared, "Right there, someone cut a landing pad into the side of that rock. That's our way in." The pilots nodded in response and guided the gunship closer, approaching the narrow opening which loomed open like a maw waiting to devour them. The rock grew in size until it filled the cockpit window and then the blackness of the opening engulfed them and cut off all vision.

Searchlights stabbed out from the Thunderhawk, illuminating the interior and shining light into a place that had known none for millennia. Revealed was a small cave, the walls bearing the distinctive patterns of melta beams, which must have been used to carve out the space. It was cramped and narrow for the Thunderhawk, especially as the floor was filled up with a pair of blocky metal shapes that might once have been shuttles. The pilots were experts though and managed to set the gunship down safely, squeezing it in and then cycling down the engines to idle.

Toran said, "Seal the cockpit and then start equalising the atmosphere in the troop bay. Stay here while we scout the area but keep alert, we may need a fast exit." With that Toran stepped out and dropped back into the troop bay as the door slid shut.

In the gunship's hold a group of Astartes waited for him, Sergeants Mylos and Matheus' squads along with the Command Squad. They were already out of their restraint cages and stood with bolters ready and helms on, nothing out there would take them by surprise. There was one other person present, Magos Castabore, who was bobbing around at the back, eager to get out and explore. As thick gasses started to pump into the Thunderhawk Toran stated, "Be prepared, there's no oxygen out there so even your multi-lungs are useless. Bless your armour's spirits and beseech them for full vacuum protocols, internal air supply only."

With those words Toran lifted his own helm and fitted it into place, locking the seals tight. It wasn't as easy as it sounded, his augmetic eye meant he had to put it on at an odd angle and his Artificer Armour boasted an Iron Halo in the form of a double-headed eagle behind his skull. The result of this was that he had to bow forward and twist his head, but he had enjoyed years of practice and it went on smoothly.

Sealed into his helm Toran looked about and opened a comms channel saying, "Vox check."

Sergeant Mylos replied, "First Tactical Squad ready."

Sergeant Matheus declared, "Second Tactical squad all present and correct."

Sergeant Furion stated deadpan, "Command squad standing by and I have warned Novak not to touch anything, no matter how bright and shiny it looks."

That brought a chuckle from all and Toran's lip twitched as he said, "Magos?"

Castabore replied, "I am ready and I have void-hardened servitors to bring essential equipment."

Toran paused and queried, "Magos are you sure it is wise to come yourself?"

Castabore stated, "My augmetics are sufficient to withstand this atmospheric pressure, I am in no more danger than you are."

Toran nodded and as the air stopped hissing in he said, "Let's go then."

As the Thunderhawk's ramp slid down Toran led them out with his bolter raised, the self-propelled rockets did not need oxygen to fire and would be as deadly here as they were in a vacuum. It was a curious sensation to walk in this atmosphere, the thick pressurised air slowing down every movement and making it feel like being underwater. Every step was exaggerated and strange noises rang off his helm as he moved. Toran led the squads out into the landing bay and they formed a perimeter, bolters held outwards. Instantly Castabore floated over to the half-dissolved lumps of metal and declared, "Orbital shuttles, STC Arvus lighters. Definitely human-made but I see no Imperial markings at all."

"What happened to them?" asked Toran looking over their melted wings and deformed hull plates.

Castabore pondered, "The airframe material is rated as non-oxygenating and inert, it is impossible for them to rust. I hypothesize that this rock formation has not always been at this elevation, at some point it must have drifted lower into the atmosphere. Exposure to both increased pressures and corrosive gases could have done this."

Toran nodded and said, "Mark it for later examination, let us press on." The group moved out and headed towards the back of the landing bay, finding a large metal door hanging inward.

Furion commented, "Outer seals failed and the pressure blew it inwards, anyone inside would have died quickly with no warning at all."

Toran went to step through but Furion held up a hand saying, "Captain I must protest again, you should not be going in there. You are too valuable to risk in an unknown situation."

Toran sighed, "Not this again, I told you on the ship I will not send any Brother to do something I would not do myself. So no, I am not sitting this one out in the Thunderhawk."

Furion shook his head and said, "Then I must insist that you at least let the squads go ahead of you."

Persion spoke up from behind him quipping, "Yes send Novak in first: he's expendable."

"Hey!" Novak protested but the chuckles on the vox drowned him out.

Toran stepped back and said, "Fine, Matheus and Mylos, scout ahead." The Sergeants nodded and filed their squads in through the hatch, headed into the darkness beyond, autosenses penetrating the darkness with ease. After a minute a pip on the vox signalled the all-clear and Toran stepped through, followed by the rest of the party. Beyond they found a long corridor, bored into the rock with various rooms and chambers at regular intervals. It was bare and featureless save for occasional lumps of half-formed metal on the floor. Toran led them inwards, following the cleared path and passing various brothers scouring the adjacent rooms for threats or discoveries.

As they walked Jediah reached out and poked a finger into the wall, causing a large clump to fall away and he spat, "Soft and pliable, this thing is more like foam than rock."

From behind Castabore called, "It is similar to a form of pumice, which must be how it is able to absorb the lifting gases that make it float."

Toran was only half-listening, looking ahead and seeing the tunnel continue ahead of them. As they walked Bylan said, "+I feel strange+"

Persion asked, "How so?"

Bylan explained, "+I feel both bold and cautious, alert and yet not anticipating danger+"

Novak remarked, "I know what you mean, it is like being on the cusp of battle and yet not."

Furion declared, "What you are experiencing is the thrill of discovery, the joy of exploration for its own sake. Make the most of it, a Space Marine rarely experiences such things, we were made for waging battles not conducting surveys."

"I don't like it," spat Jediah, "Give me a good fight any day."

They continued to walk and presently emerged into a large chamber, some form of cargo bay, stacked with rotten crates. Toran's eye instantly went to a small hatch on the far wall and he said, "Look a pressure hatch and it's still sealed. Mylos, Matheus secure this space, everybody else with me."

Persion walked over and pressed a corroded rune panel next to the door but shook his head and said, "No power, we'll have to cut our way through."

Novak asked, "Won't that break the seal?"

Castabore replied, "I anticipated such a problem; let me set up an airlock."

The servitors plodded forward and began erecting a small portable airlock; it was thin but sturdy and would hold back the atmosphere for a few hours. Once it was set up a servitor stepped into the airlock and began cutting the hatch with a plasma torch. As they waited Novak drummed his fingers on his chestplate and said, "Has anyone else wondered what's going on here?"

Bylan asked, "+What do you mean?+"

Novak said, "Why are the Eldar attacking us?"

Persion said, "How can we know, they are aliens. They betray and ambush us and we fight them back. That is the nature of the universe."

Novak said, "But why us, why now?"

Furion declared, "There is no understanding the Eldar, they are a random force in the universe. Be content with seeing them broken and defeated, waste no time on asking why."

There was a beep from the servitor and the hatch fell away, revealing what was beyond. The airlock was only big enough for one person at a time so the Command Squad and Castabore cycled through it in order. Toran was the last through and he waited as the air changed around him until at last it was ready and he bent down to step through the small hatch. He was brought up short when he unexpectedly knocked into the rim, then he grimaced in embarrassment as he realised that his Iron Halo had caught on the lintel. The force field generator was a potent relic, reserved only for officers, but it could be awkward at times. Toran was forced to bend even lower as he stepped beyond, before straightening up on the other side. As he rose he saw Persion staring at him and even under the blankness of the helm he could see the grin plastered all over the Brother's face.

"Not one word," Toran growled before Persion could make a comment and then he said, "What do we have?"

Furion answered from his inspection of the surrounding space, "It looks like living quarters, we swept the area and all we found was bunks, some rotten personal effects and bodies."

"Still intact?" Toran asked in surprise.

"This place was sealed, the air has been undisturbed for millennia," explained Jediah, "No signs of trauma, I'd guess it was suffocation that got them but we'd need an autopsy to be sure."

Toran thought about it and said, "Any indications as to what they were doing here?"

"None," Persion replied, "There are no minerals worth mining in this rock and we found no laboratories or research equipment."

Novak mused, "Perhaps this was a listening post or a weapon Cache."

Jediah remarked, "Worst place in the galaxy for such a thing."

Bylan interjected, "+Maybe they were criminals or refugees hiding from something+"

Persion asked, "But from what and why didn't they leave before the outer air seals failed? Those shuttles could easily have reached one of Astu's more habitable moons."

"It is a mystery," Toran said somewhat sadly, "Gather up whatever we can for closer inspection back on the ship but I suspect we will never learn what really happened here."

"+But we haven't found any answers+" Bylan protested, "+How can we just leave it like this+"

Furion put a hand upon his shoulder and said, "In life you don't always get the answers, not everything fits in a neat little box. Sometimes a mystery remains just that and all you can do is accept it and move on."

Castabore floated over and said, "I have inspected the interior and there is nothing of value here, just basic life support gear and a small genatorium. This is most disappointing, I was hoping for Cogitators or examples of rare technology."

Persion blew out a breath and said, "So, this has been a complete waste of time."

"Far from it," declared Toran, "We have claimed a viable outpost, one that is indistinguishable at long-range. "

Furion looked at him and said, "You have a plan of action?"

Toran nodded and said, "We must return to the Thunderchild and summon the assault squads, Chaplain Wrethan too. I think it's time we set our own ambush for the Dark Eldar."


	17. Chapter 17

**Saeva Abyssi Chapter 17**

In the dim, turgid sky the rock drifted slowly along as it had for countless millennia. It was buffeted by wind currents that made it move incrementally and sway from side to side like a boat on the high sea. Occasionally a gust of errant wind would make it bob downwards but the internal lift gases brought it back it again every time. It had quietly existed like this since the dawn of history, its long vigil never changing until now.

Upon the sheer rock face a group of tiny specks was anchored to the side of the wall, hanging there in perfect stillness. They were unmoved by the movements of the wind and the motions of the stone behind them, alert and ready for action. They were tiny armoured figures; clad in blue and grey with bulky jump packs attached to their backs. They were the assault squads of the Storm Heralds Third Company and they were waiting for the call to action.

Clinging on, with his back pressed against the rock face was Sergeant Lorath. His twin lightning claws were retracted and his armour was clipped to stations driven into the soft rock. The Sergeant had positioned himself among his Marines, and those of the other Assault squad, now they were waiting for the time to strike. Lorath had hand-picked his squad from the most aggressive and straight-forward Marines, not for them long-winded speeches and light-hearted comradery. These were the Space Marines who simply wanted to get on with the job and had no patience for anything else.

There was one other person present, Chaplain Wrethan, whose black armour was decorated with skulls and had been fitted with a jump pack of his own. Lorath considered the Chaplain for a moment; he had served with Wrethan before and found him to be a fierce and zealous fighter as befits a spiritual leader of the Chapter. Several years earlier he had been grievously wounded and the recovery process had been slow and painful. Yet he had refused to let that hold him back and now he was on the front lines once more. A man to admire, except for the fact that he was also given over to an unfortunate belief in the Divinity of the Emperor.

It was a contentious issue that was dividing the Chapter and causing vicious strife. Lorath had no idea why the Storm Heralds seemed determined to complicate matters of war with politics and theological discourse, as far as he was concerned it was a complete waste of time. Why couldn't they just fight and be content like he was?

He was distracted from his brooding by a sudden shift in the rock beneath him, a slight change in its orientation relative to the sky. Lorath looked outwards and peered into the gloom, his auto senses struggling to see very far. The thick clouds swirled before him, growing darker as they sank down into the infinite depths. Anybody who fell into those bottomless deeps would never be coming back. From afar Astu may have resembled a brilliant emerald, but from the inside it looked more like thick swirling fog. Still Lorath supposed he should be grateful that they were on the sunward-facing side of the gas giant; on the other side it would be pitch black.

Lorath realised that the changes he could see were not just the winds stirring the clouds; it was also the rock itself shifting. The wind was causing the slightest spin to occur, making them rotate on a vertical axis. Lorath swore and muttered, "Damnation, this is the last thing we need."

From his own perch Chaplain Wrethan voxed, "Is there a problem Sergeant?"  
Lorath answered, "We're swinging about, changing our position. We didn't anticipate this, if we move too far then we won't be able to spring the trap."  
"Have faith," Wrethan replied, "The Divine Emperor looks favourably upon us and Captain Toran's plan will work."

Lorath bit back his first crude retort, Sergeant or not nobody back-talked a Chaplain. Instead he said, "Do you think that the Captain can pull it off?"  
Wrethan said confidently, "Its simple enough, the Thunderchild runs out there and makes a lot of noise to attract the Dark Eldar. Then it lures them past us and we jump it."

Lorath glanced over at him and commented, "You took Toran under your wing, you see him as a protégé don't you?"  
Wrethan said, "He is a promising young officer who has already made his mark. I expect his name will be recorded prominently in the annals of the Chapter before he is done."

Lorath was about to inquire as to how long they would have to wait when there was a distant flash that lit up the fog like a lightning on a dark night. Lorath called, "Energy spike, I think the Dark Eldar have found the Thunderchild."

Everybody tensed and prepared for action, long minutes passed and then there was another flash followed by another. Each one getting closer and closer, signalling that the battle was moving their way. Lorath gritted his teeth as he eased the safety clamps free from his armour; knowing that time for action was close at hand.

Suddenly the thick fogs down below their position parted as something truly gargantuan forced its way forward. A vast blunt point emerged, covered in thick slabs of armour plating and reinforced ribs as wide as a Titan was tall. It tore forwards at a tremendous pace and as it did so the point widened and widened and widened until it became a ship's prow that was over a mile wide. Following on behind it came a vast conurbation, rising to become a ridged spine. The mass rose towards them like a leviathan breaching the surface of an ocean and upon that spine were sited towers the size of skyscrapers, auspex arrays, void shield projectors and chapels. From the top the beast sloped away down to two broad flanks that were covered in rank after rank of guns, each one the size of a hab block.

It was beyond massive, it was a city torn from the dirt and set free to travel the skies, it was the Thunderchild and it was moving at flank speed. Electrostatic discharges surrounded it, the by-product of its void shields and anti-gravs and even hanging far above, they could still feel the tingle of the energies washing over them. Despite himself Lorath gasped in awe, the size and power of the starship taking his breath away. He had known intellectually how vast even the smallest Imperial starship was but to actually experience it was another thing. His whole life he had seen ships from far enough away to reduce them to specks in the distance or so close that they became a world around him. But now the Thunderchild was just far enough away to allow one to grasp its true scale and that was stupendous indeed.

The Thunderchild was travelling at hundreds of miles an hour, the drag of atmosphere slowing it considerably but still fast enough to be impressive. As they watched the vast ship ploughed past, the wake of its passage making the rock sway and bob with turbulence. Lorath held on as the world jumped around him and the wind battered at his helm. The Thunderchild disappeared into the fog, her main drives causing a glow to linger long after she disappeared. Then the fogs parted again and a much narrower, spiked prow emerged in hot pursuit.

Lorath tensed but Wrethan cautioned, "Hold Brothers, timing is everything. We must be precise to the split second."  
Lorath paused and held on, then Wrethan called, "Now!"

With a thunderous roar the Assault Marines leapt from their perches, blasting away on twin contrails of rocket exhaust. They surged into the sky, accelerating so fast that the skin pulled back on their faces and their eyes watered behind their helms. They cut a glorious sight and yet they depended on going unobserved, counting on the fact that such small falling objects would not trigger an alarm. Below them the spindly shape of the Dark Eldar frigate emerged, all strange curves and long wings built around the long protuberance of a Phantom Lance. It was travelling fast, gliding along on its wings with seemingly no effort or visible means of propulsion. As the Assault Squads fell towards it Lorath saw that they were travelling too slowly, the craft would pass them by before they could intercept it. He cried "Follow me!" then twisted about downwards and fired his Jump Pack once more.

The Marines plummeted downwards, blazing fire in their wake as they hurtled towards the racing craft. It grew and grew in their vision, detail becoming clear, the jagged spikes and lurid artwork bedecking its hull becoming sickeningly sharp and defined. Lorath heard warning chimes scream in his helm, alerting him that he was pushing his jump pack too hard and for too long but he ignored it. They had to match the craft's velocity lest it splat them like bugs on a windshield, or worse they would miss entirely and fall into the crushing deeps. It was a race against time, a desperate attempt to reach their goal before it disappeared and it made Lorath's twin hearts pound.

The Dark Eldar craft grew ever larger then in a split second it was upon them and they collided body first with its hull in a tremendous clatter. Lorath felt like he had been hit by a freight train, the impact making his bones ring and even cracking a ceramite greave on his shin. He instantly mag-locked his boots but snarled when nothing happened, the Wraithbone hull proving immune to such measures. The passing wind shear tore at Lorath and dragged him backwards, threatening to tear him from the hull entirely. He growled angrily and activated his lightning claws, plunging them into the hull to arrest his fall. He felt like his arms were going to be ripped from his shoulders but refused to let go and after a second he came to a halt.

There was no time to congratulate himself though, for all around him ceramite bodies were tumbling past. The other Assault Marines trying to grab spikes as they fell or plunge knives into the hull. Lorath saw two brothers of his squad falling past him, Kasich and Melas, tumbling helplessly off the side of the craft. Lorath instantly deactivated his right claw and retracted the blades so he could reach out, crying, "Take my hand!" His fist grabbed Kasich's hand firmly and he managed to arrest his fall but Melas whipped by, thrashing helplessly as he fell away into the dark depths below.

Lorath snarled to himself, one Brother lost before the fight had even started and in such an ignoble manner. A Space Marine should die facing his enemies with a blade in hand, to die of a mere fall was not a death worthy of any Astartes. Lorath shook off the anger and focussed on the task at hand, pulling Kasich up until he could gain a grip then together they made their way hand over hand up the hull.

The wind tore at them as they crawled onwards but they refused to relent and swiftly ascended to join the remaining Assault Marines along with Chaplain Wrethan. They found them to be clustering around what looked like a Xeno version of an airlock, hidden under a point defence turret for a modicum of shelter. One Brother was tapping futilely away at a rune panel and not having much success, while another messed about trying to position a melta bomb as a back-up. Lorath snarled impatiently and shoved the pair aside, then rammed his right Lightning claw into the rune panel. There were a shower of sparks and then the airlock slid open, allowing the Assault squads into the interior.

Wrethan gripped his Crozius and said, "This is it Brothers, be ready for anything. Assume not that just because this is a mere frigate that the fight will be easy, the Xenos are treacherous and deadly even in small numbers. Summon your zeal and show no mercy, leave not one alive."

As the Assault Marines drew their chainswords Lorath flexed his Lightning claws and grinned declaring, "Well what are you waiting for, you heard the order: Kill them all."


	18. Chapter 18

**Saeva Abyssi Chapter 18**

The assault squads advanced rapidly, moving along the dim narrow corridors with surety and aggression. They advanced by combat squads, securing each corner and junction of the Dark Eldar craft in turn as they advanced. At their head Chaplain Wrethan strode with his skull helm held high, Crozius shining with power and with his Rosarius hanging around his neck on a golden chain.

Slightly behind him strode Sergeant Lorath, with his lightning claws extended and glimmering with deadly power. He was alert and ready for action and yet slightly off edge. The strangeness of the alien craft disturbed him; there were none of the bulky pipes or cables common to human ships nor any shrines to the Emperor. Instead the walls were smooth and made from some odd mix of glass and bone, the floor did not vibrate from the thunder of plasma drives and strangest of all there seemed to be no crew present.

Lorath was used to ships that required thousands of crewmen to operate and this absence made him curl his lip in disgust. "Where is everybody?" he snarled.

Chaplain Wrethan replied, "Eldar craft are notorious for having skeleton crews, there are not enough of their race left to properly man their fleet. Only the most vital locations will be manned, the bridge and whatever passes for an Engineerium."

"Good job too," growled Lorath, "The less of the Xenos in the galaxy the better."

"Yes," replied Wrethan, "The Divine Emperor has decreed there is only room for one species to dominate this galaxy and that species is Humanity."

Lorath agreed wholeheartedly but there was one thing that nagged at him and he said, "Then how can it be that humans have occasionally fought beside the Eldar?"

Wrethan replied, "We sometimes share a common enemy, but that does not make us allies. The one certain thing about the Eldar is that they will betray any alliance as soon as it suits them. The sooner the Eldar go extinct the sooner mankind will be free of their perfidious treachery."

Lorath understood and quoted, "The enemy of my enemy is a problem for later."

Suddenly from up ahead one of the Assault Marines started waving them forward and as they approached they saw that he stood outside a large hatch. There was no sign of foes so they peered inside and were horrified by what they saw. Beyond the hatch were long lines of black cages, each one inhabited by a broken and bleeding body. There were men and women of all ages and walks of life, aliens and twisted amalgams of all three. The one thing the prisoners all had in common was that they were broken, bodies mutilated and desecrated by a hideous inventiveness that delighted in the degradation of others. It was not just their bodies that were ruined; their minds were too, for not one being looked up as the Marines entered. They sat still and drooled, oblivious to their surroundings, no longer able to comprehend anything beyond their next torture.

"Prisoners," gasped Lorath pulling up short, "We did not anticipate prisoners, what do we do?"

Wrethan declared, "Despatch them quickly."

Lorath was surprised to hear that but he wasn't shocked for the galaxy was as a dark place, still killing non-combatants out of hand did not agree with the Storm Herald's code. He felt someone should protest and said, "Father Wrethan, is that necessary?"

Wrethan sternly said, "This is not a rescue mission, we cannot be slowed by weaklings."

Lorath said, "But Captain Toran would want us to spare civilian casualties."

Wrethan stepped closer and placed a gauntlet on the Sergeant's pauldron saying, "Lorath, look at them, look into their eyes. They are too far gone, there's nothing left to salvage here, the Dark Eldar have destroyed them to the core. The best thing we can do for these people is to end their misery and send their souls to the Divine Emperor."

Lorath understood and nodded, there was nothing else to be done and they had a mission to complete, so there was no point wasting time hand-wringing. If this had to be done then best it was done swiftly and surely, better to get the job done and move on. Lorath waved the marines forward and they drew combat blades as they opened the cages one by one, then they dispatched the prisoners with swift thrusts. Lorath personally worked his way up the cages bloodying his Lightning claws with innocent blood. It was the work of but a minute to empty the slave pens, yet the deed sent Lorath's anger surging and his contempt for the Xenos grew to staggering heights. He put down the last innocent then snarled, "The Dark Eldar will pay for this, my wrath will not be sated until they are all dead."

"Good," declared Wrethan, "Hold onto that anger and hone it to a keen edge, keep it ready until the moment is right. Now we've wasted enough time here, move out Storm Heralds."

With weapons held ready the Assault squads headed back into the narrow corridors. They proceeded higher and higher, seeking out the craft's bridge. Lorath led from the front, his anger seething at what he had seen below. The Imperium held that the existence of the alien was a crime in itself but the depravity he had witnessed only made their eradication more righteous. He wanted to rip them to shreds; he wanted to make them pay for what they had done.

It was then that they first encountered the crew, a handful of Dark Eldar emerging from a side room right before them. The Xenos gasped in surprise to see the intruders and reached for splinter pistols at their waists. The Storm Heralds didn't give them time to draw the weapons, gunning them down with a hail of bolt-pistol fire. The mass-reactive rounds caught the frail bodies and blew them apart in showers of thin, watery blood.

Lorath called, "We just set off every alarm on the ship!"

Wrethan cried, "To the bridge, double time!"

At a flat sprint, the Assault squads raced to the heart of the ship, passing every turn without pausing. Soon they saw an ornate arch up ahead, which could only be the bridge hatch. Before the arch a knot of Dark Eldar were hastily trying to erect a barricade, only to gasp in shock when the Astartes appeared. They dropped whatever they were carrying and raised Splinter rifles to unleash a volley. "Charge!" cried Wrethan raising his Crozius and as one the Assault Marines raised their chainswords and leapt forward. Lorath was at the heart of the formation and he thundered forwards, slamming his boots down hard on the deck with every footstep. He felt splinter rounds pinging off his amour, each impact trying to force him back but his weight and inertia kept him barrelling forwards. Stray bolt rounds flew back in return but the intensity of the incoming fire increased as they closed and Lorath saw Brother Orthelo go down, a long jagged splinter protruding from his eye lens.

Ahead of him Chaplain Wrethan was leading the way, surrounded by flashes of light as his Rosarius' Conversion field dissipated the incoming shots. The Dark Eldar saw him advancing and concentrated their firepower, seeking to inundate him in a storm of jagged splinters. The barrage was devastating and yet the Armour of Faith held firm and Wrethan waded through the storm unharmed. With Wrethan leading the way the Assault squads closed the distance and then they leapt into combat. The fight descended into a hacking, heaving scrum of armour and spilt blood. Razor sharp daggers scored ceramite plates while roaring chainswords swung wide in response, sundering flimsy alien armour with ease.

The Dark Eldar fought with deadly grace and unerring skill, dancing around blows and darting forward and back to strike weak points. The Space Marines for their part fought with brutal force and unstoppable momentum, breaking delicate bones with crushing might and tearing blades.

Lorath was in the heart of the fight, his lightning claws already stained with Xeno blood. He hacked left and right, each blow cutting down a lithe figure and leaving steaming offal in his wake. A Dark Eldar came at him with a vicious short sword but a sweep of his claws tore off its arms and left it bleeding out on the deck. Another swung at him with a bayonet on its splinter rifle but Lorath stabbed his claws right into its face and its head crumpled around the pointed blades. The fighting was frantic and close, yet the Space Marines were built for exactly this kind of warfare and their sheer brutal might was unstoppable.

Just as Lorath thought victory was in their grasp he saw a dark blur emerge from the arch leading to the bridge, leaping into the fight with a flashing long-sword sweeping around it. Lorath saw that Brother Farell didn't even have time to react before the blade snicked out and separated his head from his shoulders and then on the return stroke it took the sword arm off Brother Kasich. Lorath reacted on pure instinct, throwing himself at the blurring foe with a cry of rage on his lips. His claws thrashed the air before him and he screamed as he hacked and tore everything before him. The enemy however was not cut down by his strikes, instead dancing around the blows, always managing to be where the claws were not. So fast was his opponent that he could barely see it, only catching glimpses of a tall helm and almond shaped eye lenses crested by a purple plume.

Lorath roared and swung wildly at his foe, but the Dark Eldar dodged left then swung in with a blow across the mid-riff. Lorath snarled as he felt the wicked blade part his armour and transhuman blood flowed. He lumbered about and tried to catch the Dark Eldar in a bear hug but his opponent ducked under the desperate attack and cut again from the other side, carving apart the power armour like tissue paper. Lorath roared in frustration but he just could not catch his foe and could not resist as the Dark Eldar spun behind him and slashed across the back of his knees. Lorath crashed to the deck as his legs collapsed beneath him and his foe closed in for the kill. The sergeant was galled by the skill of his foe, disgusted by the inhuman grace on display and the precision of the blows. But what really stoked his anger was the memory of the lost souls he had witnessed below and the knowledge that this one must have played its part in the circus of horrors.

Lorath snarled in anger and struck out with his claws, the foe swayed back expecting a last blow but that was not the Sergeant's intent. Lorath did not strike upwards, he went down instead and rammed his claws through the Dark Eldar's boot. One blade went right through the Xeno's foot, pinning it to the deck and the alien screamed as it was transfixed in place. Lorath didn't let it cry for long, ramming his other hand upwards to disembowel the Dark Eldar in a spray of blood and entrails. The Dark Eldar collapsed to the deck and Lorath rose, his transhuman body already closing his wounds and reknitting torn tendons.

The Sergeant looked about and saw the fight was over, the frail Xeno no match for the might of the Space Marines. The surviving Astartes were gathering themselves together and clearing their weapons of gore. He saw Chaplain Wrethan performing the Last Rites over the body of Brother Farell, without an Apothecary present the sacred Gene-seed would have to be collected at a later time. Lorath knew that the Chaplain would not appreciate being interrupted so gave a moment of respect for the dead and then said, "This must have been the Xeno Commander, the bridge is undefended now."

"Good," declared Wrethan, "Secure the stations then sweep the rest of the craft, clear out every compartment. Then signal the Thunderchild and tell them that this ship is ours."


	19. Chapter 19

**Saeva Abyssi Chapter 19**

Athra J'rect was examining a statue, considering its lines and forms. It was an interesting piece, with unusual symbolism. It was also sculpted out of a living being, its flesh rewoven in horrific ways. But the most interesting thing about it was that it was still alive and still screaming thinly.

Athra was stood within a chamber on his flagship, a small vestibule tucked away out of sight. It contained the statue and a single pair of chairs, with a small table set between them, bearing a crystal decanter of wine. The other only other thing present was the Incubus Dramaq, who was gripping his Klaive blade silently and constantly at alert. Athra had been waiting several minutes in the room but he didn't mind, the coming meeting was something he had been looking forward to. There was the scrape of a heavily boot behind him and Athra turned to see the Sorcerer Beta entering the room, followed by his brute Gamma. They wore their armour, as always, but still looked mystified as to why they were here.

Athra opened proceedings by saying, "Well you have a lot of explaining to do."

Beta sounded cautious as he said, "How have we given offence?"

Athra was enjoying this but he faked a frown as he spat, "You abuse my hospitality and that of my other guest."

Beta demurred, "Archon I assure you…"

"No!" barked Athra, "I was quite clear on how you were to deport yourselves, and you violated my trust!"

At that the brute Gamma, leaned forward with a growl of anger but Dramaq stepped forward, Klaive raised in readiness. Beta waved his brute back with a hand and gripped his staff firmly as he said, "Could you at least tell me what we have done to offend you?"

Athra leered and said, "Trying to feign ignorance? Well, let me show you."

Athra waved a lazy hand and a section of wall lit up like a pict-viewer. Displayed upon it was a shocking scene, two armoured Astartes kneeling down with their hands upon their heads, surrounded by armed Dark Eldar guards. It was Delta and Epsilon and they had been trapped by their hosts.

Athra's superior smile widened and he said, "We caught these two trying to sneak into places they shouldn't have been: the lovely Farseer's cabin and a landing bay. Careless of them, did they really think I didn't have them under observation?"

Beta was taken aback but he tried to wriggle out of the situation by saying, "They acted without orders, I shall have to punish them severely for their disobedience."

Athra said, "Allow me; I think that taking their heads would be fitting."

Suddenly there was a furious roar and Gamma launched himself at Athra, bringing his double-headed axe around in a killing blow. Before he could land a strike there was a blur and from nowhere Dramaq appeared, deflecting the strike with sublime grace and making the air ring. Gamma reacted instantly, swinging around again to carve the Incubus apart but Dramaq twisted his klaive to parry with effortless ease. Gamma launched a third strike but Dramaq didn't parry this one, he let it pass over his shoulder while he twisted back on his right foot and braced his hip into the larger warrior's midriff. A curious millisecond passed by and then somehow Gamma was inverted, flying head over heels to crash onto his back. A shining blur knocked the axe from his hand, sending it skittering away over the floor, leaving Gamma unarmed.

Dramaq placed his klaive against Gamma's throat, perfectly positioned so the warrior couldn't reach him from his prone position. The Incubus had the Chaos Marine trapped and the slightest twitch of his hand would slit his windpipe, a blow even an Astartes couldn't recover from. All of this had occurred in less than two seconds, less than two. Athra was thrilled by the sudden violence but Beta was staring, aghast at the result of the duel. He had never seen Gamma bested in combat before and would never have thought it could have happened so quickly. He glared at the Archon and growled angrily, "If I had my flagship…"

"Well you don't," quipped Athra, "As you would say I hold all the cards."

"So," growled Beta and an aura of psychic might grew around him, "Is this how it is to be, a fight to the death? My Sorcery against whatever powers you wield?"

Athra snorted and said, "Oh don't be so dull and unimaginative, I've lived far too long to be stirred by such banal threats. Bloodshed can be amusing but there are far more subtle ways to achieve one's goals."

Athra sat down in a chair and gestured Beta to be seated. Beta stared for a moment, then he released his psychic power, dissipating it harmlessly before he sat down, making the chair creak alarmingly with his weight. Beta reached up and removed his helm, revealing a bronzed, tattooed face while Athra reached out and poured a thick syrupy wine into two crystal goblets. He offered one to Beta who refused it but he sipped at his own, enjoying its acrid falvours.

The two sat in silence for a long moment and then Athra remarked, "It seems that you have been a poor guest, sending your men to break into the Farseer's cabin and rifle through her things."

Beta growled angrily, "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"Oh, so you weren't looking for this?" asked Athra holding up a small data-crystal in one hand.

Beta went very, very still with his eyes fixed upon the crystal. He didn't say a word for a long second but then breathed, "Do you have any idea what that contains?"

"Actually I do," commented Athra lightly, "It's the original Sangprimus Portum, created by your Corpse-God."

"He's not my God," growled Beta harshly.

"Nevertheless this is his handiwork," said Athra with a grin, "Gifted to the Shaded One in your species' little civil war. Your lot stole it from Ravendelve, intending to do Abyss knows what with it, but then they lost it… how careless of them. I won't bore you with the rest of its history, suffice to say after a long and convoluted journey it ended up in T'selia's possession and she used it as leverage to gain your support. Oh, the things you could do with this information, the possibilities are positively titillating."

Beta glanced over to where Dramaq still had Gamma pinned to the floor and then he growled, "You're obviously not planning on killing us, so why are we here?"

Athra cocked his head in enjoyment of seeing the Sorcerer's ire and said, "Why don't you guess."

Beta shook his head and growled, "I have no patience for your games, just tell me what it is that you want."

Athra sipped at his wine and said nonchalantly, "Such an impatient race, never taking the time to appreciate the finer things in life: like a good story. I hear you killed your gene-father… tell me about that."

Beta eyed him suspiciously, looking for an ulterior motive but then he drew in a breath and said, "We were the last of the Emperor's Legions, the XXth, made in secret so none would know what we were ordered to do. We were made to do the unthinkable, to perform the deeds other Legions wouldn't or couldn't do. We moved in silence and few even knew of our existence. To them were the Aleph Null, the Left Hand of Darkness, the Amaranth Coil and the Hydra. We earned no glory, no renown or titles, even honour was denied us, there was only the mission and its completion."

Athra commented, "What a hollow existence."

Beta nodded, "Yes but then our Primarch came, our father so like us not only in body but in mind and soul too. He thought like we did, moved like we did and his strategies were flawless in planning and execution. He led us into the light, to stand alongside the other Legions, though those snobs never appreciated us."

"How sad for you," Athra remarked.

Beta sighed and said, "Even after we emerged the Alpha Legion still got all the dirty jobs, the deeds that were unthinkable to most. Oh, the VIth Legion, the self-declared 'Sanction of the Emperor', had its uses but it was a loud, crude thing, prone to going off-mission. So here was the rub, how do you sanction a sanction? What do you do when the executioners need killing?"

Athra smirked and said, "The first rule of planning an assassination: kill the assassins."

"Yes", said Beta with a smile, "Unfortunately it was too unpalatable a deed for the high and mighty to sully their hands with, so naturally they fobbed it off to us. Alpharius himself gave my cell a mission to develop the gene-tech necessary to destroy an Astartes, a whole Legion if necessary. Long did we search through arcane lore and forbidden texts, I learned much of the Warp at that time, but sadly we did not find the key we sought. Then finally after the defeat of the Ak'Haireth bone drinkers we found it, a way to manipulate the Xeno's genetic structure to our own ends. We used it as a base to create a virulent virus, one that an Astartes' gene-crafting would be defenceless against."

Athra asked, "Naturally you tested it?"

Beta nodded and replied, "I unleashed the virus upon one of our own cells, the Unbroken Chain. The operation went perfectly but oddly it didn't kill them, instead it drove the entire cell insane. They went mad, frothing and clawing in a rage that put the XIIth Legion to shame and then they launched a genocidal campaign that depopulated several colonies. An extreme reaction to be sure but one that could have been mollified with further experimentation."

Athra commented, "But your Primarch didn't approve…"

"No, he was outraged and immediately ordered the project purged and covered up," barked Beta, "He said the project was a total failure, that he had wanted dead enemies not berserkers. I was punished, told that I had violated the unity and brotherhood of the Legion, but I saw through his hollow protests. For all his talk of adaptable thinking and extreme measures, Alpharius was still clinging to the Emperor's narrow vision. Afraid to grasp real power, the power that flows from the Warp. I saw then that for the Legion to achieve its true potential, to grow into its full might, the Primarch had to be eliminated."

"I see," mused Athra, "Well it certainly is an intriguing tale, one that deserves a reward." With that the Archon tossed the data-crystal towards the sorcerer. Beta's hand shot up and snatched the crystal from mid-air and he slowly brought it down to eye level. Beta stared at the crystal in his hand in disbelief and then said, "You're, you're giving it to me… Just like that."

"Why not," said Athra, "We are allies are we not?"

Beta looked suspicious and said, "No, we are not. This is about T'selia isn't it; you're doing this to undermine her position."

Athra explained, "She thinks herself clever, but like all born of the Craftworlds she follows the future blindly when she should be forging it with her own will. Take this for example, without this she has no hold over you."

Beta nodded and said, "So when you make your move she will be bereft of allies."

Athra's smile widened and he said, "Then it seems we understand each other."

Beta's eyes narrowed and he said, "But will you let us leave unmolested?"

Athra shrugged saying, "My goals do not require your presence, once we are done here I will return you to a neutral location and you can summon your Flagship. We can each pursue our own goals and make the futures we want."

Beta took up the wine before him and raised a toast saying, "Then it seems we have an accord. To the future."

Athra declared, "To the future," as he emptied the glass.


	20. Chapter 20

**Saeva Abyssi: Chapter 20**

The Thunderchild hung low in the depths, coasting along on minimal power. She was drifting freely on the wind and letting the planet take her where it will, supported only by the arcane energies of the anti-gravs. Her crenellations and gun batteries were stained with chemicals from the atmosphere and there were scars on her bulk, running along her spine. She was lying low, waiting for the right sign to spring into action.

On her bridge the crew waited with baited breath, each man taught with anticipation of the action to come. Captain Toran was stood in his customary place, holding onto the railing of the command dais as he watched the Hololith. He was scouring the image for any sign of the enemy, but there was nothing, only a single blip flying in wide circles.

Toran drew in a breath and called, "Sensorium, any sign of the last Dark Eldar craft?"

Persion replied, "None sir, if they're out there then they are being sneaky about it."

Toran sighed and said, "Status of the decoy?"

Castabore called back, "Xenos technology is an offence to the Omnissiah, yet the servitors I left aboard are keeping it circling and the distress call is set on a repeating cycle. It should look like they are disabled and are calling for help."

"Excellent work," said Toran, "Keep it stable and helpless."

He sighed to himself, growing frustrated himself. They had been lying in wait for almost a whole day but there had been no sign of the enemy and he could tell the crew were getting impatient. They couldn't wait forever, no matter how much they wanted to.

From the Engineerium pit Bylan asked, "+Captain, could we at least raise shields?+"

"No," Toran replied, "The energy signature would be too great, we need to stay quiet and undetected until that last frigate shows its face."

From the helm Furion called, "Captain, I also have concerns about the anti-gravs, they've been running continuously for a long time. We can't stay down here forever, we need to break orbit sooner rather than later."

Toran answered, "We cannot leave yet, we have to destroy the last of our pursuers before we can leave."

"About that," Novak interjected, "What are we going to do about those cruisers in orbit? We are still heavily outgunned."

"I have a plan," replied Toran pointedly eyeing Magos Castabore, "But let us concentrate on the matter at hand."

Wrethan declared, "We should not let haste spoil a good ambush, the enemy must be taken by surprise for this to work."

However Castabore spoke up saying, "I too would not recommend staying here much longer, I am picking up increased wind shear and violent perturbations of the atmosphere. I believe a storm front is closing upon this region, one of significant power."

"Is that a cause for concern?" Toran asked, "This is a starship after all."

Castabore did not sound reassuring as she said, "And this is a gas-giant, storm fronts here surpass anything seen on terrestrial worlds. The Great Red Spot on Jupiter has persisted for forty-thousand years and can reach wind speeds of over seven hundred kilometres per hour and temperatures of over sixteen hundred degrees Kelvin."

"Very well," Toran sighed, "You have all made your points; if the Dark Eldar do not show up soon, then we will move on before the storm front gets here."

The bridge crew relaxed at that and were about to begin preparations but Persion looked concerned and peered at a console saying, "Captain, we are detecting a disturbance…"

Before he could complete his sentence there was the sudden shriek of an alarm and the whole bridge heaved violently to one side, tiling down and across as the Thunderchild rocked under a terrific impact. Bylan cried, "+We're hit, we're hit! That was a Phantom Lance!+"

"We didn't find them," roared Persion, "They found us!"

Toran pulled himself upright and was already yelling orders, "Reactors to full power, raise shields, power up the main drives and set Auspex to active sweeps, I want to see what's out there."

The Thunderchild roused itself for battle, shields snapping on around its hull. It had been caught off guard but it was far from defeated. A great gash in its upper hull bled energy, debris and bodies but the ship was still in the fight and it still had all its guns. The great leviathan rose from the depths, billowing clouds of gas parting around it as its prow soared higher and the air shimmered with power from its void shields igniting.

On the bridge Toran called, "Where are they?"

Persion replied, "There they are, off the starboard bow. They are moving fast, looks like their running out to make space for another pass."

"How did they find us?" called Novak.

"They must have known it was a trap," Toran muttered but inside he was cursing himself for a fool. He knew exactly what had happened: he had made a mistake. He had assumed that the Dark Eldar would respond to a distress call the same way a human would, the way he would. He had thought that they would come running to help their beleaguered kin, yet these were not humans and they did not react as humans would. Their most likely response to seeing a distress call would be to laugh and jeer. The fact that the lost ship had bothered to send a distress call at all was probably the first clue they had that this was a trap.

Persion called, "They're lining up, coming in for another attack run!"

Toran growled, "Their mistake, Weapons Batteries give them a volley."

Along the flanks of the Thunderchild the weapon batteries lit up, throwing waves of destruction out into the sky. A torrent of shells, missiles, las and grav-beams spat forth, turning a whole part of the sky into a maelstrom of violence. Yet the Dark Eldar craft manoeuvred expertly, weaving and spinning around the explosions to avoid every single one and it emerged unscathed.

On the Bridge Jediah bellowed in frustration, "Bloody Eldar, stand still so we can hit you!"

Persion cut across him shouting, "They're firing!"

The Thunderchild rocked again and Bylan cried, "+Direct hit to starboard shields, Captain they aimed for the anti-gravs. If we hadn't got our shields up in time they would have sent us into the endless deep+"

"Dammit, this one is good," growled Toran, "Right let's show them what we can do. They're running out again, helm come to a new heading: hard-a-starboard. Ordnance, ready torpedoes!"

The Thunderchild lurched under their feet as the bow swung around, tracking the Dark Eldar craft. Long seconds crawled by until the lines were right and then Toran called, "Fire!" The whole ship shook as six cylinders ejected from the prow, they tore into the gaseous mists tracking for targets and seeking out the enemy.

Toran watched their progress in the Hololith, gripping tightly to the rail and muttering, "Come on, come on, come on."

But Persion called, "Enemy ship is releasing something, it's making a lot of noise. I think it's some form of decoy drone."

As Toran watched the Torpedoes veered off course, arcing away from the Dark Eldar craft and chasing the tiny little blip. They closed upon it like a cluster of arrowheads, inexorably chasing it down, ignorant of its nature. Then in a flash of light they impacted, blowing the decoy to atoms in a conflagration of fire.

"Warp hells," Persion swore, "They're coming around again, lining up for another pass!"

Toran roared, "Brace for Impact!"

Serfs raced to obey, locking down systems and reinforcing structural integrity fields across the ship in readiness. Barely had they managed to bring the ship to stations when the Dark Eldar fired again and the Thunderchild rocked under the impact. Men clung to their stations as the deck heaved and Bylan shouted, "+Direct hit, shields are buckling!+"

Toran snarled, "Bombardment canons, return fire!"

But Jediah responded, "They're moving too fast, we can't get a lock on."

Toran looked up and saw that he was right, the Dark Eldar were already sprinting away. There was an obscene grace about their movements, a speed and daring that put lumbering Imperial ships to shame. Toran's anger rose and he shouted, "We can't beat them like this, we have to turn the tables. Novak, launch the Thunderhawks!"

"Aye Captain," Novak called as serfs frantically signalled the gunships to launch. Toran saw a slew of tiny icons appear, the Astartes strike craft spilling out of the Thunderchild's bay and forming up into squadrons. As he watched they leapt away, chasing the elusive Dark Eldar craft like mastiffs after a hare. The Dark Eldar spun and weaved but the Thunderhawks were faster and they soon closed the distance. Yet just as they were about to commence an attack run the Hololith flared and a score of tiny dots appeared. Persion called, "They're launching strike craft of their own!"

Wrethan spat incredulously, "What?! No craft that small could support fighters."

"Apparently they can," growled Toran watching the icons hurtle towards the Thunderhawks. He expected them to engage the gunships in a whirling dogfight but was shocked when they passed by without pausing. Completely ignoring the threat to their mothership in favour of another target.

"What's happening?" Toran barked in confusion.

Persion examined the consoles around him and said, "They aren't engaging the gunships at all, they're heading our way."

Toran's jaw dropped as he realised the truth and Wrethan frowned to see his shock, the Chaplain asked, "What is it?"

"You were right, those aren't fighters. They're boarding pods," Toran gasped then he yelled, "Get those Thunderhawks turned around now, stop the pods!"

Novak hastened to comply and the gunships broke off their attack run, reversing course in a desperate attempt to intercept the boarding pods. Unfortunately, Toran could see that it was far too late, the pods had too big a lead and would reach the Thunderchild first.

Furion called up, "Captain, should we dive the ship? The pressure…"

"We don't have enough time," Toran cried, "Fire point-defence turrets now!"

The hull of the Thunderchild erupted up with scores of tracers, blazing out from all over the ship in flurries of lights. They crawled out into the darkness, creating a web of destructive power that sought to encapsulate the closing pods. Toran watched the pods weave and dive, the tiny icons jittering before his eyes as they tried to evade the incoming barrage.

He could see that they were good, both fast and agile but they weren't perfect and as he watched three, no four icons winked out in succession. They were torn apart in the flurries of destruction, spilling bodies out into the murky atmosphere. Yet sadly the rest were unaffected and flew on to contact the hull. The Thunderchild rang as the boarding pods impacted, stabbing into the thick armour and burrowing in like ticks on a stray. Drillheads gouged holes into the plating and grasping claws pulled them downwards, penetrating into the crew spaces. Then blast doors slid open to allow the occupant ingress.

On the bridge Bylan called, "+Breaches, we have breaches on decks eleven, fourteen, seventeen and twenty-nine. Serfs report contact with boarding parties but they're not Dark Eldar. The reports speak of some form of mutants+"

Toran hit the rail in frustration and called, "Alert Third Company and tell them to move to repel boarders. Chaplain Wrethan you have the bridge, keep that accursed craft off us."

"You're not staying?" Wrethan said in disbelief.

"No, you remain here, all other Brothers with me," declared Toran drawing his sword, "Come Brothers, so long as we draw breath nobody is going to take our ship away from us."


	21. Chapter 21

**Saeva Abyssi Chapter 21**

Down the corridors of the Thunderchild raced Captain Toran and his Command Squad, weapons held ready and eager to find the foe. Ahead of them they could hear the sounds of combat, but ships were curious places and echoes rang far. Every time they closed upon the sounds of fighting the passageway would twist and they would find that they yet had a way to go.

As they ran Toran barked into his vox, "Third Company, Situation report."

Over the vox came the voice of Sergeant Lorath saying, "Heavy fighting in the starboard batteries and both assault squads are engaged here. These things look like the prisoner abominations we encountered on the Dark Eldar ship, but far more aggressive. For the Emperor, we will leave none alive."

Zeax's voice came next saying, "Engineerium is under heavy attack, my squad is engaged but it's not enough. Casualties are rising and we can't hold this line, we request permission to fall back."

"Permission denied, the Engineerium must not be violated," Toran ordered, "Stand your ground Brothers, reinforcements will be rerouted to your position."

Over the vox came the voice of Sergeant Matheus calling, "Captain, we hear you and my squad is already en-route. We are only two decks above the Engineerium and making our way down to the Devastator's position."

Toran ordered, "Good work Sergeant but Brothers are already dying, you must increase your pace. Make haste Storm Heralds I am counting on you to get there in time."

"You can trust us Captain," Matheus replied, "We will put the White Scars to shame with our speed."

Toran knew there was nothing more to be done and called for the other squads, each one of them reporting in turn. The Company was engaging the enemy throughout the ship and fighting was going on everywhere. Yet these bestial foes did not seem to want to go down easily and every fight was a desperate struggle in itself. One by one the squads voxed in, each telling of terrible struggles but there was one who was silent.

Toran frowned and called, "Sergeant Mylos this is Captain Toran, report your status. Mylos come in…"

Over the vox a crackling, distorted voice came back saying, "This is Mylos, we are suffering an overwhelming attack. We are surrounded on all sides, we can't hold much longer!"

Toran barked, "Report your position now!"

Mylos' voice came back, "Twenty-seventh deck, ninth compartment, junction three hundred and six."

Toran checked his position in his armour's logs and saw his Command squad was the closest to Mylos' position. He lit his vox and called, "I am only two junctions away, help is coming, hold the line Brother!"

Toran redoubled his pace and the Command squad followed in his wake. Gone was their typical banter, replaced by a grim relentless focus. War was upon them and the lives of Brother Initiates were imperilled. So they put their heads down and ran for all they were worth, moving at a pace an athletic sprinter would have been dumbfounded by. Swiftly they progressed and then they saw the first signs of battle, a trail of bodies in Serf's robes laid out in a macabre display. The bodies were beyond mauled; they had been ripped to shreds and mutilated beyond recognition. Toran had seen Khorne Berserkers leave cleaner sites of battle and he cursed whatever foul pit had spawned such monsters to unleash upon his Chapter.

The sounds of fighting grew in their ears and then suddenly it was before them, a heaving scrum of Ceramite and flesh brawling in the tight confines of the Ship's passages. In the midst of the melee were a handful of Marines in Storm Herald blue, battling against desperate odds with combat knives and bolters. Set against them were a dozen huge monstrosities, filling the passage with their bulk and heft. Each one of them was a strange amalgam of forms, some human, some alien and some unidentifiable. They were hulking giants swollen with obscene muscle mass, bony protrusions and too many limbs. Their backs were covered in metal plates and plastek injector vials, filled with odd chemical stimulants. No two were alike, each one unique and nightmarish creation. The only common feature was that each one had a steel helm sutured onto their heads, flashing nightmares directly into their minds. Their jaws were distended wide, filled with drool covered fangs and they screamed in rage and pain, their very existence a nightmare of torment and horror.

Toran saw that they were throwing themselves at Mylos' squad, bearing the proud Brothers down with their superior bulk. The Space Marines were fighting for all they were worth but their knives were barely making an impression and they would be overrun in moments. Toran felt a rush of righteous anger at the sight and threw himself into the fight with a cry of "For Terra and the memory of Roboute Guilliman!"

The monsters saw them coming and lumbered about, sensing the greater danger approaching. Toran flung himself at a large brute whose three arms were all tipped with bony clubs. He dashed in and swung his sword for its midriff but was shocked when the blade did not penetrate. His sword had mowed down Orks and scythed down Traitors but hitting this thing was like taking a blunt axe to a gnarled Oak.

Toran saw a bony army swing towards him and ducked but was taken by surprise when a third arm came around and caught him a ringing blow that made stars flash before his eyes. The brute saw his stunned state and pounced, pinning his sword arm in its jaws and trying to bite it off. Toran heard the ceramite vambrace creak under the strain and tried to pull back but he was firmly lodged and could not escape. Toran snarled in anger and reached down with his other arm, grasping his master crafted bolter in a pistol grip. He forced his pinned arm upwards, lifting the brute's head, even as it chewed on his armour, exposing its neck. With a righteous snarl Toran fired and sent a three-round burst straight into its exposed larynx, finding a weak spot and blowing its head clean off.

The Captain shook off the skull of his foe and looked about, seeing his Brothers fully engaged. Novak was duelling with a monster that had long fleshy whips sown into its arms, it lashed out at him over and over but the Champion danced between the blows. His shining sword flicked and whished about, scoring long cuts to the brutes' flesh, bleeding it by a thousand cuts. Persion was hacking away at a beast with a red-hot Friction axe, gouging chunks of flesh off its arms. The brute roared as it tried to grab him but as it reached out Jediah jumped in from another direction. He hit the deck and skidded between its legs as his Fractal edged short sword cut left and right, hamstringing the beast. The monster crashed to the deck helplessly and Persion raised his axe high to bring it down to cave in the mutated skull.

Meanwhile Bylan was fending off a monster with the haft of the Company Banner, gripping the adamantium rod like a quarterstaff. The blows came thick and fast but Bylan refused to let go, honouring his sacred duty rather than drop the standard. A series of heavy blows forced him to one knee and he dropped before it with the haft held up as a guard. Just as the brute raised its arms for a killing blow the form of Furion emerged, leaping high to land on the monster's back. The monster roared as it realised that it had a tick on its back and tried to shake him off but Furion held on determinedly. His hands gripped the plastek vials on its back and with a grimace he squeezed them hard, forcing chemicals into its bloodstream. The brute screamed as its veins turned purple, overdosing it with a lethal cocktail and then it fell down dead, brain fried by the noxious mix.

Toran had seen all this happening in a flash of the eye but then he spied something that truly caught his attention. Thrashing its way through the scrum of the melee was a gargantuan brute, standing head and shoulders over its brethren. It was insanely swollen with corded muscle mass and it clubbed its lesser kin aside with casual ease.

Toran threw himself at the brute, unleashing a flurry of blows from his Relic blade. Its bladed tip scored red lines across the scarred flesh but failed to penetrate any deeper, stopped by some filthy Warp-taint woven into the flesh of the monster itself. Toran snarled in frustration but was forced to hastily throw himself back as a massive fist with bone-spikes swept an inch past his face. Toran was about to riposte but then he saw something that made him gasp, tattooed upon the Monster's shoulder was a glyph. It was the mark of a snarling drake's helm in profile, the mark of the Salamanders Chapter. Toran was stunned to see it, the implication rocking his world, this beast was once an Astartes.

The moment of hesitation almost cost Toran his life as a huge fist came sailing right at him. At the last moment he managed to twist to bring his pauldron up but the thrust still caught him a mighty blow that caved in his armour and sent him spinning away. Toran hit the floor hard but rolled with it, lurching back to his feet in a flash, blade raised before him. The brute barrelled at him like a charging gorilla, its great fists leaving dents in the decking but Toran spun out of its path. A part of him wanted to call out, to plead with this lost Brother and beg him to return to sanity but he knew it would be futile. This thing was no longer a Space Marine and had any trace of its former identity been left then it would not have attacked.

Toran lashed out with his sword and scored a deep cut across its back but the brute reacted like lightning, swinging an elbow back to catch the Captain in the side. Toran felt like he had been rammed by a Rhino and the force of the impact sent him sprawling to the deck, helpless and vulnerable for a moment. The brute roared in triumph and reared up over him, bringing both fists up high to land a mighty blow. With a roar The creature smote downwards to smash Toran apart, but when its fists were one inch from the Captain's skin there was a flash of light and the beast was thrown back.

Toran was instantly up on his feet, the effects of his Iron Halo's forcefield dissipating around him as he dived forwards with his sword outstretched. The tip of his relic blade caught the brute right in the centre of the chest, driven by Toran strength and inertia it finally penetrated. Toran leaned into the strike, pushing for all he was worth and bellowing in primal fury as he felt the sword work its way further in, inch by inch. There was a moment's stillness and then the brute swayed and fell backwards, sliding off the blade. As it fell a gasp of air escaped its lips and Toran could almost believe it was the word, 'Brother' but in his heart he knew that was just wishful thinking.

He sighed as his foe went limp and looked about to see the rest of the brutes being brought down by the concentrated might of the Storm Heralds. Toran wanted to congratulate them and bide them rest for a moment but knew that the battle was still raging elsewhere. He waved the squads to form up and gathered the survivors into a combat formation, before nodding to Sergeant Mylos who sullenly ignored it. With a sigh Toran led them onwards and as he did so he glanced upwards towards the bridge and whispered to himself, "This is taking too long, I just hope that Wrethan can keep the Thunderchild in one piece until we get back."


	22. Chapter 22

**Saeva Abyssi Chapter 22**

On the bridge of the Thunderchild an atmosphere of tension and worry ruled. The Serfs were hurrying to and fro on various duties with clipped tones and fearful glances at the great Hololith that shone overhead. Many men thumbed religious icons and whispered a prayer for Divine favour, hoping that He on Terra would grant them a miracle.

One man however stood proud and defiant, Chaplain Wrethan. He was a grim figure in his black armour, with a skull-masked helm covering his face and a golden Rosarius hanging around his neck. His Crozius was currently clipped to his belt, it was a cumbersome thing but he would never go anywhere without the symbol of his office by his side. His was a most sacred duty, to embody and uphold the Chapter's traditions and faith and he would live that role right up to the last, even if it meant his death.

Wrethan was currently standing on the Command dais, surveying the mortal crew. Wrethan generally had a low opinion of humans, seeing them as weak in body, mind and soul. In fact it was his firm belief that the average Imperial citizen would be done a world of good to be subjected to a flogging. Still he couldn't fault the crew of the Thunderchild; the Serfs had risen magnificently to the task at hand. They had followed their Space Marine Lords with dedication and competence and they had surpassed most of his expectations of mortals. Of course he wasn't going to tell them that, not after all the hard work he had put into building a notorious reputation for being a cantankerous son of a bitch.

Wrethan had endured much to be standing here today, some years earlier he had suffered terrible wounds in the defence of the Fortress-Monastery. The crippling injuries had nearly broken him but he had endured the agonies and slow recovery. Partly out of stubbornness but also because he knew that his Chapter and Company needed him. Wrethan was fiercely loyal to his Battle-Brothers and was willing to endure any hardship for them, especially Captain Toran. The Captain was young for an Astartes officer and still needed a careful eye kept on him. He had a brilliant mind, able to see beyond the tenants of the Codex Astartes yet never blatantly ignoring it either. Wrethan knew the Captain was ambivalent about the subject of the Emperor's divinity but that was why he needed a steady guide to keep him true.

Wrethan dearly wished that he could be below decks, fighting along the Company as a Chaplain should. The Captain's absence was notable; he should be leaving counter-boarding actions to his subordinates. It was a sign of his relative youth that he still thought he had to confront every foe himself, yet he had shown wisdom enough to leave command of the Thunderchild with Wrethan. Toran had shown great trust in the Chaplain, putting the lives of every man and Marine into his hands and Wrethan was determined to live up to that trust.

He was shaken from his reflections by a cry from the Sensorium, "Contact off the starboard bow, the Dark Eldar are closing."

"Damn they're impatient; they can't even wait for their boarding parties to finish." Growled Wrethan, "We need to warn them off, give them a round from the weapon batteries."

There was a panic among the serfs and voice called up, "Master, there is still fighting in the starboard batteries, we have only limited firepower available."

Wrethan snarled in a fierce tone, "Don't give me excuses, fire anyway you dogs!"

The Thunderchild rumbled as the guns fired, spitting a hail of macrocannon shots out into the gloom. Any single hit would have wrecked the Dark Eldar craft but it weaved around the shots like a dancer on the stage and emerged completely unscathed. Its Phantom Lance glimmered with power, strange energies building within and then it threw a spear of destruction at the Astartes ship. The Thunderchild rocked under the impact and Wrethan hung on as a serf cried, "Direct hit, shields are buckling!" The Chaplain refused to be swayed by the rocking of the ship, determined that the Serfs would see that he was unbowed. He watched the Dark Eldar craft sweep past their position, already running out for another pass. He growled, "They shall pay for their impudence. Where are the Thunderhawks?"

From the Ordnance pulpit a pale-faced serf stammered, "They… they are giving chase my lord but the enemy is too fast and agile, they can't keep up."

"Warp take all Xenos scum," Wrethan growled, "We can't just sit here and let them pick us apart, we need to move. Helm come to course 147 by 000, maximum thrust."

From among the stacked displays Magos Castabore popped up and called, "I advise against such a course, that vector will bring us too close to the approaching storm front."

Wrethan growled, "We have no choice, we must cut down the Xeno's options. Recall the Thunderhawks; they're not doing any good out there anyway."

The crew held on as the ship lurched beneath them, the artificial gravity straining to hold back the conflicting inertial forces. Wrethan watched the vectors spin in the Hololith and waited to see how the Dark Eldar would react. He wracked his brain trying to think of another plan and asked himself what would Toran do? Something crazy, unexpected and totally at odds with the Codex in all likelihood. Unfortunately Wrethan was not so flexible and he could not see another path out of this.

Suddenly a Serf cried, "They're coming back!"

"Where are my guns?!" Wrethan yelled but it was too late. The Thunderchild rocked again as the Xeno's hit her hard, making her quiver under the destructive power. The Serfs cried out in fear and one of them called, "Shields collapsing, one more hit like that and were done for!"

Wrethan gritted his teeth and knew that the Dark Eldar had them dead to rights; the Astartes vessel was too slow and cumbersome to win this fight. All they needed was one solid hit but the Dark Eldar would never give them that opportunity, it would pick them apart one shot at a time. Wrethan was out of options, but he was determined to go down fighting. He was about to call for one last barrage with every gun they had when something unexpected occurred. The Thunderchild rocked but not from weapons fire, this was something new, something unprecedented. Wrethan barked, "What was that?"

Castabore responded, "A hurricane-force blast from the storm, it is moving towards us much faster than I predicted."

Those words lit a flash of inspiration as an idea came to Wrethan. He saw then that they were caught between two fires and there was no way out, so the only option was to go through one of them. He didn't know if it was what Toran would do, but that didn't matter, all that mattered was what he chose to do.

Wrethan shouted, " Helm turn us to starboard and set main drives to maximum power, we're going into the storm!"

"We're going to do what?!" shouted Magos Castabore as she shot up in alarm, "The anti-gravs can't possibly sustain us under that kind of force!"

Wrethan declared, "We will ride the whirlwind and come out the other side. I will trust human engineering over Xeno trickery any day."

The Thunderchild groaned as it heaved about, the prow arcing over to point right at the oncoming hurricane racing towards them. Winds battered at the hull, clawing at its exposed turrets and guns. The ship wasn't built for atmospheric flight and it boasted all the aerodynamics of a brick. Yet the power of the main drives forced it forwards, meeting the whirlwind head-on and breaking through.

The bridge creaked and wailed as the Thunderchild rocked in the gale and Wrethan called, "Status of the Dark Eldar?"

A serf reported, "They're hanging back, looks like they don't want to risk entering the storm."

"Then we shall have to motivate them," declared Wrethan with a grin, "Access the sewage recycling system and engage a full purge. Let us show the Xenos what we think of them."

Deep below decks a series of pumps went into motion, pushing a tide of human sewage through vent hatches and flushing the pipes clear. The Thunderchild sprayed a trail of waste behind her as she sailed forward, a black cloud that flew away to splatter all over the curving hull of the Dark Eldar craft.

On the bridge the serf blinked and said, "Enemy is increasing velocity… they're pissed."

"Good," stated Wrethan, "Too blinded by outrage to see the danger, now we shall test who is the superior race."

The Thunderchild rocked and heaved as it ploughed into the storm, the hurricane force winds battering her from all sides. The hull rang with the noise of the passing wind as it tore gargoyles from the battlements and clawed at viewportals. The proud ship met the full power of a gas giant condensed into a single storm front and matched it pound for pound, driving onwards with relentless determination. The bridge shook and rang under the impacts and the rocking motions became a violent juddering but Wrethan stood proudly for all to see and preached, "Fear not the Storm for we are its Heralds!"

The Thunderchild bore on, taking each blow of the hurricane and enduring it stoically. The force on display was ferocious and there was nothing to be done but to grit one's teeth and pray. Then there came a cry from the Sensorium and voice called, "That's it, that's it! The Xenos couldn't take the strain, they've lost control. Their altitude is decreasing rapidly; they're falling, falling fast! Pressure increasing… its, it's breaking up, yes it's definitely breaking up, they're all dead."

There were no cheers this time for the violence of the storm had them in its grip and everybody knew that they too were at risk of losing control. Wrethan called, "Point the bow upwards, divert all power to the drives, get us out of here!"

Slowly the Thunderchild brought its prow upwards, fighting for elevation but the hurricane battered it back down again. The main drives flared with potency, straining to the limit but the forces at play held the ship firmly and refused to let go. Castabore shouted, "Anti-gravs are burning out, we're going to lose the ship!"

Wrethan snarled for he could indeed see that the Thunderchild was outmatched by the storm and he opened a direct link to the Engineerium calling, "Techmarine Hevostan…"

Hevostan's voice came back saying, "I know, I know but I'm already pushing the plasma-reactors, number eight has never been taken to maximum output before. I don't want to dare it."

"Dare it anyway!" Wrethan shouted, "We all die if you don't."

"Error-shunt-abort, very well but on your own head be it," Hevostan growled.

Wrethan stared at the readouts across the bridge and saw the power levels creep upwards, trickling more energy into the drives. He watched their altitude metre with total focus and muttered, "Come on Thunderchild, come on!"

Slowly, ever so slowly the altitude metre began to creep upwards as the ship rose from the depths. The hurricane battered at it, trying to pull it back down but the proud vessel refused to be dragged back and clawed its way higher and higher. The wind howled like a banshee but it was powerless to prevent the ship escaping and as the minutes dragged by the Thunderchild rose ever higher, leaving the storm behind. At long last the ship rose to the edge of space, where the gases grew thin and the winds lost their force. There the triumphant ship levelled off, streaming chemical deposits off its hull where the wind had left them. It was battered and scarred but it had survived the dangers of Astu and bested its foes.

On the bridge Serfs gaped in dumb disbelief, stunned by their own survival. Some wept or prayed while others cheered with the knowledge that they would live to see another day. Wrethan however lowered his head in silent prayer, giving thanks to Him on Terra. Then he straightened and said, "Report."

"Its bad," Castabore answered, "The Anti-gravs were pushed beyond their tolerances and they are indicating the start of a cascade failure. I estimate eight hours until we lose them completely."

"Well then," Wrethan stated with stony resolve, "It looks like the battle is not over yet; we still have those cruisers to deal with."


	23. Chapter 23

**Saeva Abyssi Chapter 23**

On the bridge of the Thunderchild calm had been restored, serfs going about their duties in a measured fashion now the danger had passed. Yet Chaplain Wrethan was stood on the Command Dais, like a fierce judge holding court. He was watching the proceedings, making sure that nobody became too complacent about their roles.

Into this marched Captain Toran, with his command squad in tow. They seemed to be in jubilant spirits and were congratulating themselves on a hard-won victory. Toran saw the Chaplain stepping down to meet them and said, "The ship is secure Father Wrethan, what has happened here?"

Wrethan replied, "The last of the hunting dogs has been put down. We are currently drifting at the edge of the atmosphere, waiting to break back into orbit."

Toran nodded in acceptance and said, "Then we still have those three cruisers to deal with."

Wrethan punched an armoured fist into a palm and said, "Take us straight at them and we will claim a bloody revenge."

Toran held up a palm and said, "I think there's a better way, Magos Castabore, are the Reflex shields ready?"

Castabore floated over and said, "I am prepared, but I must reiterate that to use them leaves the ship without conventional shields."

"Very well," Toran said, "You may commence your rituals."

Castabore floated over to a large ceramic cube with a multi-coloured dial set into the front, the Primaris Harmonic Invertor. Toran climbed the command dais and waited as the Magos started her arcane procedures. He wasn't sure what to expect, flashing lights, strange noises, an eldritch tingle as the ship became invisible, but the reality proved far less exciting.

After a few minutes the Magos clapped her metal hands and said, "It is done."

"Really?" asked Toran in surprise.

"Yes," replied Castabore frankly.

"Open the Oculus" Toran ordered and the armoured louvres slid back to reveal the sky beyond. It was disappointingly normal, with perhaps only the faintest shimmer to suggest that strange processes at work.

Persion asked, "Are you sure it's working?"

Castabore sounded exasperated as she said, "Again… yes."

"Very well," Toran stated, "In that case let's make our move."

Under the cover of the Reflex shields the Thunderchild slowly climbed out of Astu's gravity well, inching its way back into the blessed stillness of the void. Gradually the thick gases swirling outside the Oculus fell away, revealing the shimmering stars beyond. The bridge crew went about their tasks in a muted fashion, whispering to each other, despite the patently ridiculous idea of sound existing in space. Toran understood their attitude, there was something furtive about flying in these conditions something that made one what to step quietly and speak softly. It felt like one of the field trials he had undertaken as a Scout-Novice, trying to sneak past the senior training instructors as they waited with shock batons. Many times he had slipped on a loose stone or jangled a piece of gear carelessly and felt the ire of the instructors, a painful lesson on the dangers of carelessness that he had taken to heart. This felt much the same, an urge to move slowly and stick to the shadows, all while the cold trickle of anticipation crept down his spine.

Toran realised that he was holding his breath and forced himself to breathe easily, to show the crew that he was not afraid. He spoke aloud, making everybody jump and said, "Report our position."

Furion replied, "We've cleared the atmosphere."

"Disengage the anti-gravs," ordered Toran, "Proceed on main drives."

In the background a rumble that nobody had noticed ceased, leaving an eerie absence behind. As the Thunderchild moved away from the planet the crew breathed a little easier and there were faint grins on a few lips as the Serfs accepted that they had escaped the trap set by their foes. Magos Castabore however was less reassured, flitting from console to console hurriedly taking in readings. After a minute she turned about and said, "Tolerances are proving far finer than projections estimated. I am concerned that we may be bleeding energy despite our precautions."

Toran thoughtfully looked at the dial on the Primaris harmonic invertor, which was jammed well into the red. Then he said, "Reduce main drives and minimise reactor output as much as possible. Keep the Machine Spirits of the Auspex in passive mode, no active scans."

Persion commented, "That will leave us half blind."

"It can't be avoided," Toran retorted, "Magos, has that helped?"

Magos Castabore checked and reported, "A significant improvement, the masking effect should cover any stray energy emissions. Now we should be able to move past any foe with only a minimal risk of detection."

Toran wasn't comfortable with the minimal risk part of that, but there was nothing to be done so he said, "Persion, any sign of the enemy?"

Persion checked and said, "There are three distinct distortion patterns present. The Dark Eldar are back behind their Shadow Fields and seem to be moving in a search pattern."

"They're looking for us," Chaplain Wrethan declared, "Making sure we don't try to make a run for it."

Toran declared, "Running was not my intention, Castabore I want you to implore the Machine Spirits to extrapolate the point where those distortions come closest together and then chart us an intercept course."

Castabore sounded shocked as she said, "Input error, you have a means to safely withdraw and instead you want to head back into battle?"

Chaplain Wrethan stood proudly as he said, "Astartes do not run while the fight can yet be won. The Dark Eldar have spilt the blood of our Battle-Brothers and we will make them rue their perfidy."

Castabore shook her box-like head but did as asked and swiftly programmed in the calculations. After a minute a sheaf of parchment spewed out of a slot and Serfs gathered this up before presenting it to the helm. Furion accepted this and then directed the crew to make it a reality. Slowly the Thunderchild came about, moving sluggishly as she proceeded towards the foe. Her drives were mere flickers of plasma and the whole ship silently drifted forward, protected only by the gossamer veils of her Reflex Shields. The minutes crawled by and Toran had to bite down on his tongue to prevent himself continually checking the crew's status. As they waited Wrethan stepped up onto the Command Dais and said softly, "Toran, I approve of the spirit of your decision and yet this is risky. We will only have one shot at this."

Toran nodded and said, "It has to be chanced, we do not know how long these Reflex Shields will fool the enemy. It would be placing our fate in the hands of blind luck to run away. Besides we will never get a better opportunity to take the Xeno's unaware."

Wrethan nodded and they stood for long minutes until Furion called up, "We're in position."

"Time?" called Toran.

Persion replied, "Best guess, five minutes until the enemy ships reach their closest positions to each other."

Toran took this in and asked, "Well then we had better be ready, weapons status?"

Jediah stated, "Bombardment canons ready, weapon are batteries loaded but the capacitors are dry. Once we drop Reflex shields it will take sixty seconds to charge them."

Wrethan said, "The second we do that we give away our position, the enemy will not be slow to respond."

"Then we had better be faster," stated Toran, "Bylan, once we reveal ourselves how quickly can we convert the Reflex Shields back to void shields?"

Bylan answered, "+Unknown, we haven't even simulated it. Best guess… three to seven minutes+"

"Make it three," Toran commanded, "Novak, hold torpedoes and Thunderhawks in reserve, we are going to need them to cover us while we are vulnerable."

The crew responded with brisk professionalism and the minutes ticked by as the distortions closed in. Toran felt the cold touch of dread touch his hearts as he waited, would the Reflex shields prove true? Would the enemy's witchery find them regardless? There was no way to know and nothing he could do save wait and see. After an interminable wait Persion said, "All three distortions are in weapons range, thirty seconds to their closest pass."

"Stand ready, we are only going to get one shot at this," Toran ordered, "I want simultaneous broadsides to port and starboard, target one foe each, Bombardment canons target the third. Speed and precision are everything, the second we fire bring the ship to full power, I want void shields up within three minutes."

Everybody stood to, awaiting the order and then Toran commanded, "Drop Reflex Shields, bring the ship to full power!"

Wrethan stomped down to the deck shouting, "You heard the order, get those reactors blazing, weapon crews why aren't you charging those guns?! Set auspex to active mode, and raise the shields. Move it you dogs, move like your lives depend on it!"

The seconds crawled by, stretching into eternity then at last the weapons consoles flashed green and Toran cried, "Fire!" With a violent shudder the Thunderchild unloaded its batteries, discharging every weapon at once into the blackness of the night. Rank after rank of stacked weapons discharged, filling space with an inferno of devastation and crippling explosions. It was stunning in both its suddenness and ferocity. One minute space was empty and blank, the next a starship appeared from nowhere and unleashed an overwhelming tide of firepower. The Thunderchild had taken its foes by complete surprise and unloaded everything it had at them from point-blank range.

As the bridge shook with the thunder of discharging weapons, Toran called, "Status of the enemy?"

Persion answered, "I'm detecting debris and energy surges from two of the distortions, we hit definitely hit something. The distortions are slowing down; I think we crippled a pair of them."

Toran questioned, "What about the third?"

Persion scowled and said, "No signs of damage, I think we missed."

Toran gripped the rail tightly and said, "Right prepare to…"

He was interrupted as an alarm began to shriek and the Hololith flared red, Persion's eyes went wide and he yelled, "New contact, new contact! I have a FOURTH distortion emerging out of nowhere. It's right on top of us and it's... it's… Captain its massive!"

Toran gasped in dismay as new icon blazed in the Hololith and he roared at the top of his lungs, "Shields! Shields now!"

But Bylan cried, "+We need more time!+"

The Thunderchild rocked as an energy wave washed over it, disrupting systems and making the Machine Spirits wail in distress. Alarms blared and the bridge shook as Toran held on and gritted his teeth. He looked out of the Oculus to see a shimmering distortion wave appear, peeling back to reveal something hidden behind it. The stars wavered in the Oculus and then they fell away as a massive double-pronged prow emerged. It was vast, totally eclipsing the Thunderchild's modest girth and it stretched away in a long cascade of armour and Lance canons. Beyond that emerged an elongated hull, section by section as the masking effect dissipated. The hull was bare of adornments but the sheer size of it was a display all unto itself. It boasted endless lines of guns and lances, piled up upon each other until they at last came to a high bridge that rose proudly over the bare metal of the hull.

It was a breathtaking sight, dwarfing the Thunderchild the way a shark would a minnow. It was a giant, utterly out-massing the displacements of all the other ships combined. It was a dinosaur in an age of rodents, a monster from a lost age that eclipsed the sun itself with its sheer bulk. No shipwrights in this lesser age could have dreamed of making such a thing, for it was beyond them in every way. It was a sight to loosen the bowels of any void-farer and worse of all it was a sight Toran recognised.

On the bridge everyone stood aghast, unable to understand what they were seeing and how it had emerged from nowhere. Novak stared in horrified amazement at the sight filling the Oculus and said, "It's enormous, it must outgun every ship in the Chapter's fleet combined."

"But how can that be here?" said Persion in stunned disbelief, "Where did it come from?"

Toran replied grimly, "It's been here the whole time, lying low under the cover of its own Reflex Shields."

"This whole time," said Furion grimly, "Just laying in wait for us to walk into a trap."

Bylan didn't follow any of this and he said in confusion, "+But I don't understand… what are we looking at? What is it?+"

"It is a Gloriana-class Flagship," Toran replied in forlorn resignation, "That is the Shadow of the Emperor."


	24. Chapter 24

**Saeva Abyssi Chapter 24**

Deep within the Dark Eldar's flagship the Alpha Legion sat impatiently. They were sitting in a sullen silence, each one of them brooding in their own way upon the galling turn of events. The Alpha Legion were supposed to be the supreme infiltrators and deceivers in the galaxy and yet the Dark Eldar had comprehensively outmanoeuvred them.

Delta was squatting in a corner, obsessively sharpening his knives over and over. He had been caught sneaking into the Farseer's quarters and that was a terrible blow to his pride. Epsilon for his part had withdrawn into his work, idly poking around with his devices and speaking to no one. Beta however was sitting in a corner, holding the purloined data-crystal as if it were a totem. He flipped it around his fingers like a conjurer performing a trick, over and over as he contemplated its mysteries. Gamma was pacing back and forth in an angry march, kneading the haft of his axe. He was furious about his confrontation with the Incubus and wouldn't shut up about it. Over and over he muttered, "I'm going to kill him, mark my words I will kill him. I have his measure now, next time it will be different. Ill see him bleeding out on the deck."

"Will you shut up," barked Delta, "So you got beaten, it happens. Quit whining about it."

Gamma was incensed by that and he snarled in response, "You hardly did any better, you're supposed to be the infiltrator but you got caught red-handed. They should have put you down on the spot."

Delta looked up and hissed, "Are you threatening me?"

Gamma's lip curled and he growled, "Maybe I am, what are you going to do about it?"

From the corner Beta sighed and said, "Will you two relent, so we had a setback, it hardly matters. We got what we wanted in the end."

"Oh yes, the precious gene-tech" scoffed Delta, "What good is that?"

Beta looked up sharply and said, "It is the key to victory, the means to make the Alpha Legion supreme among the stars."

Delta snorted, "I seem to recall hearing that before we followed that egotist Vorshaan to invade the Storm Herald's homeworld. All that talk of a failsafe, but in the end it did absolutely nothing."

Anger flashed in Beta's eyes and Gamma felt a cold prickle on his neck as psychic power gathered. Beta looked stern and said, "The failsafe would have worked but we hadn't anticipated how much genetic drift had occurred among our enemies over ten millennia of gene-seed replication. We needed the undifferentiated source material to effectively tailor our work. But now we have it imagine the possibilities: tailored viruses that can wipe out the specific gene-strain of any bloodline. We could eradicate any Chapter we choose to at will. If that's not enough we also recovered the Ravendelve data on improved genetic enhancements, we could make a generation of superior Chaos Marines. Better, faster and stronger than anything the loyalist have. The Alpha Legion will be made supreme among the stars."

Beta's tirade was interrupted by a beep from Epsilon's gear and he spoke up to say, "Oh… that's odd."

Everybody looked round in surprise and Gamma spat, "What is it?"

Epsilon said, "My data-thieves are still buried in the ship's Cogitators and have intercepted an alert. Sensors are picking up something very unusual out there."

"Let me see," said Beta and Epsilon flipped up a display to show the read-outs.

All Gamma saw was a mass of squiggly lines and he was baffled but Beta began to chuckle, softly at first but then louder and louder. Everybody looked at him as he guffawed and Gamma said, "Care to let us in on the joke?"

Beta wiped a tear from his eye and said, "That is a reactor's energy spike bleeding through the cover of a Reflex Shield. Somebody is trying to sneak up on us and making a rather hash job of it."

Gamma was alarmed and said, "The Raven Guard are here?"

"No," chuckled Beta, "They aren't nearly so ham-fisted, this is somebody who has no experience with moving under Masking Fields. They're drawing far too much power at once to hide their presence."

The penny dropped and Gamma exclaimed, "That odd Storm Herald ship… it has Reflex Shields?"

"Apparently," remarked Beta, "We did steal the secret off them after all. It only took them fifty years to figure out how to make it work, not bad for Throne-Worshipping lapdogs."

Delta reluctantly said, "I suppose we had better tell that cur Athra."

"I think not," remarked Beta, "In fact I think our stay with the Dark Eldar has come to an end. Epsilon can your data-thieves block this alert from reaching the bridge?"

Epsilon replied, "Of course,"

Beta commanded, "Then do so, Delta and Gamma, seal the door. I will make preparations for our immediate departure."

Instantly the Chaos Marines sprang into action, each focussing on their task. Epsilon bent over his devices while Beta took up position in the middle of the room and started chanting with his hands gripping his staff tightly. Meanwhile Delta and Gamma approached the door and drew tiny devices from their belts, small melta-charges that they fixed to the door. In a second they grew red-hot and then the door began to glow whitely as the charges welded the seams together. In few seconds a thumping noise began to beat upon the door but Beta's chanting was growing louder and louder. The Chaos Marines withdrew to stand next to the sorcerer and pointed their guns at the door as the ritual built-in power. The knocking ceased and there was the frantic cries of guards calling for a Dark Lance to break through but it was far too late.

With a cry Beta slammed his staff upon the deck and there was a bright flash of unlight as Warp energy surrounded the four of them. Gamma felt a terrible sense of dislocation, accompanied by the feeling of being crushed into a ball and simultaneously stretched on a rack. It was a horrible sensation, one Gamma profoundly hated but it was nothing compared the feeling of a million eyes upon his skin. The knowledge that hordes of ravenous Daemons were scouring his soul and looking for any ingress, any way to devour this morsel in their realm.

Suddenly the light fell away and the Alpha Legionnaires found themselves in a different place. A large amphitheatre like space filled with cowering mutants who were working in various crew pits. The walls were clean of adornments or Icons of the Dark Gods, bearing only a single multi-headed serpent painted high above. It was a picture of efficiency and quiet control, for it was the bridge of the Shadow of the Emperor. Gamma took a moment to revel in the feeling of being back in this hub of power, this place where they could determine their own fate. He also smirked at the fact that the Dark Eldar had completely failed to notice its presence, the massive ship which had been laying in wait since long before they had arrived. All the recent humiliations and slights Gamma had suffered had been worth it, the knowledge of the Alpha Legion's secret superiority carrying him through every hardship. He only wished he could see the look on that Incubus' face when the Shadow revealed itself.

Beta leapt onto the Command dais, knocking aside the mutant standing there, the sorcerer would never have trusted another Chaos Marine with the Flagship while he was absent. He looked over the bridge and called, "Any signs of the intruder?"

Epsilon marched over to a sensor pit and called back, "None, but we're half-blind ourselves."

Beta nodded and said, "Well we will just have to let them take the first shot then. Prepare weapons for when we do reveal ourselves."

The mutant crew hastened to obey and Gamma leaned back. All their hard work was about to pay off and he was determined to enjoy every second. Slowly the minutes slid past and they waited, knowing that they now held all the cards. Then at last a chime sounded and Epsilon called, "The Storm Herald ship is dropping its Reflex Shields. It's close, very close… they seemed to have picked the exact same spot we did."

"What are they doing?" called Beta.

Epsilon replied, "They're powering weapons… targeting the Dark Eldar. There they go, all weapons firing. They've struck two of the Cruisers, looks like they crippled them."

"What about Athra's ship?" asked Beta.

"That one they missed," Epsilon replied.

Beta drew in a breath and declared, "Tut, tut, then we shall have to show them how it's done. Drop Reflex Shields and power weapons."

The bridge came to life as the Shadow powered up, revealing itself to all. Gamma knew the sight of it would send the enemy into a panic, such a vast and mighty vessel appearing from nowhere would strike at their very hearts. Beta however sagged and let out a long sigh of relief, like a man dropping a heavy yoke from his shoulders. Gamma looked over but the Sorcerer shook his head and said, "I am fine. The psychic effort of keeping that Farseer from scrying the Shadow's presence was considerable but there's no need for such pretences anymore."

The ship came to life around them and Delta reported from the weapon pits, "All ready."

"Polish off those cripples, let's thin their numbers," declared Beta, "Give Athra's ship a little volley too, as a token of our esteem."

The Shadow rumbled as her weapons discharged, ranks of stacked guns bellowing in fury. Every Battleship in the galaxy was a fearsome pugilist but the Shadow was Gloriana-class, nothing else could match her. Wave after wave of blasts shook the ship and it took long minutes for all the guns to fire in their allotted sequences. Finally Epsilon reported, "Targets destroyed, there's nothing but atoms left of them. Athra's ship took a good hit too, it's struggling to move."

Beta sounded jubilant as he said, "Excellent work, now where are the Storm Heralds?"

Epsilon looked into a readout but sounded confused as he said, "They're moving fast, headed away but curving around… by the Maelstrom what are they playing at?"

Gamma looked over, seeing the intent instantly and declared, "Her Captain's trying to get behind Athra's ship, he's going to use her as an ablative shield."

Beta snorted in amusement and cried, "Ha, now that one's got a clever mind, shame he's on the wrong side of history. Oh, this is just too good, let's play along shall we. Let them get into shelter then give them a taste of the lances."

The crew obeyed and they let the enemy run for shelter. Then the Shadow fired again, unleashing blast after blast from her prow and dorsal lances. Thick columns of ravening energy speared out into the dark, illuminating space like a solar flare. The bridge lit up with readings and Epsilon cried, "Targets hit: the Storm Heralds took a few good licks but the damage was light. Athra's ship took the brunt of it though, she's completely dead in the void."

"Well done," Beta replied, "Right we've done enough here, power up the main drives, let's go."

As the Shadow rumbled into life and swung away Epsilon spun about in shock and said, "Wait, we're leaving? What about the Storm Heralds?"

"Those nobodies don't matter," declared Beta dismissively, "We have what we want and our foes can't stop us. Let them finish each other off for us while we depart."

Epsilon was shocked and said, "But we could obliterate them all right now. This ship outguns them ten to one, it would be easy."

Delta interjected, "Exactly… it would be too easy. Besides this way they will know that we could have finished them off. It will gnaw at their lapdog-pride that we had them in the palm of our hands and chose to let them live."

Epsilon shook his head and said, "They will pursue us."

Gamma spat, "No they won't, they will follow the hidebound dogma of their dull Codex. Better to finish off a crippled foe that you can beat than engage another that you have no hope of defeating."

"He's right," said Delta peering at a readout, "They're already launching boarding torpedoes and Thunderhawks towards Athra's crippled ship."

As the Shadow slipped away into the stars Epsilon made one last plea to Gamma, "You are fine with this?"

Gamma cocked his head and remarked, "The Hydra has already won, besides watching our enemies tear each other to shreds will be fun."


	25. Chapter 25

**Saeva Abyssi Chapter 25**

In the darkness of space the Rapture of Excruciation bled out into the void, it was last of the Dark Eldar fleet and it had been reduced to a shattered wreck. Its wraithbone hull bore terrific gouges and its wings were but ragged lines of tattered gossamer trailing out behind it. It was broken in ways that could not be repaired and anyone who saw it would have known that it would never fly again, a fact that would have brought relief to most inhabitants of the galaxy. The interior of the ship was if anything even worse, the unbreached compartments filled with smoke, flames and the ashen corpses of crew and slaves alike. The ship shuddered constantly and its strange, half-energy half-psychic, power network quivered like a steed with a broken leg.

Deep within those compartments a white-clad being was stumbling along the corridors, staggering from wall to wall as the errant gravity shifted randomly throughout the ship. The being had a tall, crested helm on its head and a stained white cloak, now ragged and torn. It bore a thin white staff in one hand while the other was waving away the thick smoke before its face. It was T'selia and she was frantically running, not to or from anywhere but just running.

T'selia was breathing hard as she picked her way over dead corpses and leaned away from licking flames. Her flesh was nicked and torn, letting thin blood flow under her armour but she was yet alive and was determined to stay that way. Her vision was poor in this dark, smoky world but her psychic awareness was more than enough to allow her to pick her way forwards, warning her of dangers and obstacles before she even encountered them. This feat took up only the smallest sliver of her consciousness and was as natural as breathing to her. But what was truly draining her strength was the fact that her mind was deeply immersed in the Skein, shifting the myriad potential futures as they appeared before her. Yet what she saw only filled her with horror.

T'selia was aghast by what she was seeing, the potential futures were multiplying exponentially, bringing new and unexpected configurations into being second by second. She had not foreseen these futures, they had not even existed as possibilities until a few moments ago but now they were spawning faster than she could process. T'selia was a Farseer, a master of clairvoyance and precognition, but this was unlike anything she had ever experienced before and it confounded her. The only possible answer was that something unforeseen had entered the field of play, something so monumental that its very existence had shattered the timelines, leaving only a fragmented, whirling mess of possibilities in its wake.

T'selia felt panic and rage creeping into her heart but she forced it down with a muttered mantra. She recited her disciplines and compelled herself to look impartially at the Skein; she must find the shatterpoint and then restart all her predictions from scratch. The Farseer looked into the timelines, future, present and past. She immediately made several conclusions; first Athra J'rect was still alive, along with his bodyguard and that vile Haemonculi. The second was that the Mon-Keigh target was still at large, and the number of futures where it was eliminated were shrinking rapidly. These were useful facts but not the shatterpoint, so she looked again and then she saw it.

In her mind's eye T'selia beheld a ship, a vast leviathan of the void that eclipsed even the waning power of the Eldar in its might. It was typically Mon-Keigh in design but built to a scale beyond their current, feeble comprehension. It was a fossilised relic of ancient times, brought back to life by a defeated Dusk Prince and then taken by his minions for nefarious purposes. T'selia was confused this, how could this be connected to the shatterpoint?

Then she realised that it wasn't connected to the shatterpoint: it was the shatterpoint. The vast ship had emerged from nowhere and wrecked carnage, leaving the possible futures flapping wildly in its wake. T'selia paused, lost in confusion and bewilderment. This thing was monumental in import and significance, lying across the various timelines like an iron bar, but how had it gone unnoticed? Her powers of foresight were considerable and surely would have detected this thing's presence, its every action bending futures around it like gravity around a star.

T'selia reached into the Skein and probed the ship's disposition, tracing the edges of its temporal silhouette. Yet she was most surprised to encounter an all too familiar spiritual scent lingering around it, obscuring it from all psychic detection until it revealed itself. The stench was pervasive and foul, a soured psychic potential tainted with the reek of Chaos. It was the spoor of the Mon-Keigh Sorcerer Beta and it was laced with his scorn, disdain and his brazen amusement at how he had tricked her.

T'selia felt her anger slip its bounds and she screamed in rage and pain. All her hard work and sacrifices had been made moot; all her careful designs for revenge had been laid in the dust. She snarled ferociously as her walls of emotional control crumbled and her soul filled with hatred, consuming her and uncorking a torrent of wild psychic might. Her hands flared with lightning as her power ran out of control, flooding through her in an unstoppable tidal wave of potency, one that would tear this ship apart. Her feet lifted off the floor as the Warp ran through her and in her mind she heard the chittering laughter of She Who Thirsts.

Yet T'selia's outburst was interrupted as the whole ship rocked around her, not from an explosion or weapons impact, no this was something else. T'selia blinked as her foresight showed her waves of crude cylinders and stubby gunships boring onto the wrecked hull, spilling waves of brutish Gene-Bulks into its bowels. T'selia's rage turned into wild joy as she saw the target step into the ship, waving a primitive sword around like a savage. She laughed aloud as she realised that the Gene-Bulks had come looking for a fight. Typical Mon-Keigh, give them a chance to hit something with a sharpened bit of metal and they just couldn't help themselves.

T'selia forced her power into abeyance, reining it in by sheer willpower and sinking to the deck. She stroked her soul-stone and was reassured by its constant presence, all that was best about her being woven into its structure. She knew she still had a slim chance to bring the Skein back under control; she just had to get to Athra J'rect before the target did. T'selia set off at a run, skipping over dead bodies and dancing past flames. She could hear the Gene-Bulks all around her, filling the ship with their simple thoughts and felt Eldar lives being snuffed out everywhere under their crude attacks. True, they were all tainted Drukhai but they remained Eldar and she would gladly have traded a million Mon-Keigh lives for just one of theirs.

T'selia ran fleetingly through the ship, headed upwards and avoiding conflicts where possible but she knew that she would not evade them all. Sure enough she soon emerged into a mess hall where a dozen Drukhai were trying to fight off five Gene-Bulks and failing. The room was filled with fire and debris, sparking power conduits making the space seem like a vision of some primitive Mon-Keigh hell, but that didn't seem to faze the Gene-Bulks.

One of the Gene-Bulks was wading into the surviving Eldar, slaughtering them with wide sweeps of a roaring sword that boasted spinning serrated teeth. T'selia reached out into the Aether and felt the departing souls of the Drukhai, sinking into the embrace of She Who Thirsts. The Farseer channelled her power and rewove the connections to their bodies, buying the dead a few seconds more of life. The revived warriors glowed with power and then leapt upon the Gene-Bulk, sinking long knives into its joints. The primate fell to the relentless attacks, confused by how its victims were still moving as it joined them in death.

Another of the brutish primates saw T'selia coming and moved to intercept her, aiming a ridiculously oversized projectile weapon her way. To the Farseer it seemed to be moving in slow motion, its vaunted gene-enhancements no match for natural Eldar grace. She reached out into the Skein, searching for a future that suited her needs and quickly found one that was just right. She grasped it firmly and brought it into being, making the improbable not only probable but real. Under the Gene-Bulk's feet a power conduit suddenly ruptured, spilling etheric energies out in an incandescent fountain that engulfed the primitive creature. The primate went up like a bonfire, semi-psychic energies consuming it and making its armour run like wax left in an oven. It collapsed in a molten heap of steaming offal but its death drew the attention of its kin.

T'selia now had the Gene-Bulk's full attention and one of them leapt at her, swinging a roaring sword at her head. The Farseer saw it coming and arced backwards, bending her spine in a way that would shatter a rigid Mon-Keigh skeleton. The blade passed harmlessly over her head, leaving the Gene-Bulk off-balance. T'selia rose and as she did so she struck out with her staff, connecting her mind to its physical form.

The second the staff touched the primate's armour she channelled her power, reaching into the essence of the Mon-Keigh's being. It was a simple matter for her to unweave the connections between the primate's body and the simple collection of impulses it called a soul, severing its lifeline with a mere twitch of her mind. She felt the Mon-Keigh's soul being cast into the warp, foundering and helpless in its depths. She smiled to herself as she saw that there was no Golden-God on a throne waiting for it, no choirs of angels. It merely fell into the Warp and dissipated into its components, the slivers of everything it had been cast adrift for minor Warp predators to gobble up.

With an angry roar the last two Gene-Bulks threw themselves towards her, trying to get their apish hands on her flesh but T'selia wasn't about to let them. She drew upon the Warp and unleashed her powers in their most brutal and destructive aspect. A storm of eldritch lightning sprang from her fingers, blazing arcs of searing, bright lights filling the room with annihilating potential. A terrible wind blew in her wake, scattering loose debris everywhere and making it seem like a true gale had sprung up from nowhere. T'selia focussed her wrath, channelling her rage and hate into pure power. She felt her heart soar as one of the Gene-Bulks went down, its nervous system burnt out by her arcane might. The other one however, must have been some form of leader-beast and it fought on, holding up an energised fist before its face in an attempt to deflect the lightning. It took one ponderous step forward and snarled in its crude language, "Alien Fiend!"

T'selia felt her hate surge into an inferno of revulsion at the savage's stubborn refusal to die and she shrieked, "Die filthy creature!" As she did so she redoubled her attack, cascading wave after wave of lightning from her hands in a torrent of eldritch power. Brilliant white bolts caught the primitive full-on, digging into every joint of its armour and stabbing into the flesh below. The Mon-Keigh seized up as it was torn apart, the energies dismantling its flesh cell by cell and eradicating its life-force. T'selia laughed to see the primate's spark fading but she did not relent, instead pouring on power second after second. She kept the primitive conscious and suffering for long seconds after it should have died, animating its body to prolong the torment. She laughed in revelry at the might that was hers to command and the just, fitting punishment she was bestowing, then she finally snapped off her power in satisfaction.

The last Gene-bulk fell to the ground in a clatter of burnt plate, its flesh reduced to charred ashes. T'selia wasted no time in celebration, instead she ran on as fast as her legs could carry her. She had to reach Athra J'rect while there was still time, the target was closing and she had to be there to ensure its death.


	26. Chapter 26

**Saeva Abyssi Chapter 26**

Toran roared as he swung his sword, the edge of blade catching a lithe figure in the midriff and tearing it in two. Thin blood sprayed over Toran's armour and the Dark Eldar wailed as it collapsed before him. Toran wasted not a moment on his defeated enemy but looked up, searching for the next.

All around him battle raged, Storm Heralds throwing themselves the Dark Eldar, the crew of this ship going down in a frenzy of hacking and stabbing knives. The Astartes had boarded the ship in full force and were sweeping it end to end, killing all they found. True they could have just blasted the ship to ash from afar but such was not their way. Blood had been shed and honour demanded it be repaid in person, blade to blade. Not even Jediah had protested the order to launch a boarding action.

The fighting was going well and everybody, save a lost combat squad, was reporting that the ship would soon be cleared. Toran focussed on his immediate surroundings, with him was his command squad, wreaking havoc with their energised blades. They had become isolated in the melee but were making swift progress regardless. The last Xeno fell and Toran was about to order them on but then a new opponent entered the fray.

Emerging out of nowhere came a lone warrior, clad in thicker armour than the rest of its kind and bearing a two-handed Klaive blade. The Dark Eldar moved like liquid lightning, effortlessly leaping over the piled corpses, it was Dramaq and he was coming for all of them. Furion yelled, "Incubus!" but Toran was already moving to intercept the newcomer. He wasn't fast enough though for a blue blur sped past him as Novak leapt into the fray. His power sword and Combat Shield rose as he shouted, "Honour and Glory!"

The Incubus met him with a parry that threw him off to one side then lashed out so fast that even Toran's enhanced eyesight could barely see it. Novak however caught the blow on the edge of his combat shield and struck back with a flurry of attacks, his arm blurring as he struck over and over, a dozen thrusts in the space of three seconds. It was a perfect remise of strikes, over and over without withdrawing. Dramaq however was unfazed and met every blow with perfect deflections. He allowed the onslaught to come for a few seconds then he counter-attacked. His Klaive became a smear of silver light as he riposted, forcing Novak onto the defensive.

Back and forth they duelled, moving so fast that Toran could barely see them, one-second one was on the attack the next the other and then they swopped again. Both were sublime artists of their craft, both inhumanly fast and skilled, neither finding a break in the other's defences. Toran tried to intervene but the duel was moving too fast for him to process, he could not even see an opening for him to join. Novak snarled in anger as the Incubus coolly parried blow after blow, each time flowing back into a perfect counter-attack. Novak's anger and frustration were growing and that was when he made a mistake. He lunged with a fearsome strike, trying to break through with sheer strength where skill had failed. Dramaq however dove away from the shining sword, dropping one hand as he did so. The power sword flashed by harmlessly over his head as his hand brushed the ground for balance, while he simultaneously extended in a flawless Passata Sotto.

The monofilament edge of the Klaive caught Novak in the chest and the tip of it ripped through his plate to score across his ribs. Novak was left off balance for a single moment, exposed and vulnerable. Dramaq's Klaive twisted and Novak's sword went flying, torn from his grip with an elegant flourish. Toran was aghast at the sight, never had he seen Novak bested with a blade and not once, not ever, had he been disarmed so. Novak almost died then as the Klaive came back in a slash for his throat but he managed to get his combat shield up and caught the blow before it could decapitate him.

Novak fell back step after step, combat shield dashing from side to side to catch the Klaive but all he could do was block and retreat. Dramaq followed him as a relentless destroyer, Klaive spinning and jabbing over and over as it looked for an opening. Novak desperately defended himself but could not stop the Klaive as it scored up over the edge of his shield and flashed up to gouge across his helm. Novak's helm was wrecked, leaving him blind and helpless and in that moment Dramaq leapt into the air, both feet extending to catch the Champion full on in the chest. Novak went flying backwards, skittering upon the floor like a fish out of water as he skidded backwards.

Toran roared in anger to see his Company Champion bested so and he leapt at the Incubus with his sword already swinging towards his back. Dramaq however wasn't caught off guard, bending forwards to let the sword pass over him. He came about with an elegant thrust that Toran moved to parry. Too late he realised that this was a feint, for the Klaive rose over his guard in a class Coupé to head straight for his eye lens. Toran desperately twisted his head to one side and was just able to avoid a killing blow but the blade caught his helm hard with a blow that made even his transhuman head ring.

Toran staggered and his guard fell but he didn't die, for at that moment Bylan leapt in crying, "+You shall not touch the Captain!+" He swung the haft of the Standard like a polearm, forcing Dramaq to step back. Bylan swung again but the Incubus scoffed with contempt and merely thrust over the pole, plunging the tip of his Klaive into Bylan's chestplate. All fell silent for a single moment and then Dramaq withdrew, letting the standard bearer wobble drunkenly before crashing to his knees. Bylan's head bowed as blood began to pour from his helm's mouth grill and he had to cling to the standard to keep from toppling over.

"No!" Toran screamed as his Standard Bearer fell but before he could move there was a furious roar and two blue forms charging at the Incubus, attacking as one in an attempt to overpower him. It was Jediah and Persion, moving in concert with a Red-hot Friction axe and a Fractal-edged short sword already lashing out. Dramaq saw them coming and bunched up, leaping between them to flying horizontally through the air, dodging their blows with perfect grace. His boot kicked out as he flew past, slamming Jediah in the side of the helm with enough force to send him to the ground. Dramaq however had worse in store for Persion, the Klaive twitched and with barely a gesture he severed the Astartes' axe-arm. Persion fell to the floor in a clatter of plate, his right arm gone below the elbow and his weapon cooling upon the deck.

There was a hammering of armoured boots and suddenly Furion was barrelling into the fray, his heavy Mark III plate making the deck ring. He had seen his Brother's skills bested so he didn't try to be clever or elegant. Instead he thundered at the Incubus with arms outstretched, smashing bodily into him and snatching Dramaq up in a great bear-hug. Furion growled as he lifted the Incubus up off the floor, squeezing for all he was worth and trying to crush the Dark Eldar to death. Dramaq didn't seem concerned, merely reaching behind Furion and slipping his Klaive up under his backpack generator. One and two then three sharp movements saw him slice into the power cables and with expert, practised ease he sundered the armour's energy supply. Furion snarled impotently as his plate ground to a halt around him and the Incubus slipped free.

By this time Toran had regained his equilibrium and he leapt at Dramaq with a furious roar. He swung wildly but Dramaq spun to avoid the sword and it slipped by unbloodied. There followed a rather complicated moment of twisting grace and then somehow Toran was flying through the air, tumbling head over heels to smash down upon his back. The Captain was aghast at these events, his entire Command Squad had been systematically taken apart. Never had he seen such skill and grace, never before had one foe bested all of them at once.

Dramaq stood over the prone Captain and he heard the Incubus sniff in contempt as he said in a lilting accent, "Is that it? Is that really all you've got?"

"No!" came an unexpected voice, "You haven't finished with me yet!"

Toran twisted his head about and saw that Novak was back on his feet, hunched over in readiness to charge. His had wrenched his helm off and was holding his combat shield in his right hand, while his left was clenched into a fist. He was grimacing in anger and clearly about to engage a superior foe without his sword. With a cry of anger Novak charged, hammering his boots down hard as he barrelled forward, running right at the Incubus. Dramaq sneered in contempt and lowered his Klaive, meeting the charge point first. The two Champions slammed together in a crash of plate, and Dramaq's blade ripped deeply into the Astartes' guts. Novak however was grinning as he raised his left fist, holding it up to his rival's face and opening his grip to reveal what he held within.

A Frag-grenade.

There was a flash of light and a thunderous bang as the grenade detonated between them, blasting the two apart from each other. Dramaq hit the deck with a screech of pain and agony, his armour speared through in a dozen places by metal shards. He thrashed and screamed at the damage wrought on his flesh, unable to comprehend what had happened. However Novak was already back on his feet, his armour peppered with shrapnel and his face a mask of blood. He dove upon the stricken Incubus and slammed the edge of his combat shield down hard, shattering ribs and crushing his heart with brutal force. Dramaq's chest collapsed and his heart stopped, a gasp left his lips and he sighed, "But… it was so vulgar," then he fell silent.

Toran picked himself up and saw that the battle was over. Toran stalked over to Novak and saw that the Champion's once handsome visage was forever ruined; his face scarred with flash-burns, broken bones and embedded with jagged metal shrapnel. His left hand was a horrifying mess of mangled fingers and blood but he transferred his combat shield back over his wrist to cover it and Toran realised that he must have deliberately swopped arms earlier to preserve his precious sword-hand.

Toran clapped him on the shoulder and tried to reassure him saying, "Well done Brother, another triumph."

For once Novak didn't seem jubilant and lowered his head as he wearily said, "When you tell the tale of this… pretend I said something pithy and memorable."

Toran nodded, knowing how badly wounded his Champion must be and gave him a moment to recover. Elsewhere the command squad was picking themselves up and addressing their wounds. Jediah was attending to Furion's power generator, piecing the links back together in a quick and dirty fashion. Persion however was wandering about looking for his lost arm, the stump already clotting with Larraman cells. He found it with a cry of delight and bent to scoop up his Friction Axe, hefting it one handed with an eager swipe.

Toran was concerned and asked, "Are you able to fight?"

Persion gripped his axe and replied confidently, "Don't fret, it only takes one hand to swing this. I am good to go."

There was a sigh from behind him and Toran saw Bylan staggering to his feet, Standard held high. Toran was amazed by his recovery and said, "Bylan how… how are you alive?"

Bylan rapped his chest and proclaimed, "+Luckily he caught me right in the augmetics, I only experienced a few moments of disruption+"

"The Emperor Protects," proclaimed Furion as his armour awoke around him.

Toran was glad that they had all survived and as they gathered their weapons up he said, "This isn't over yet, come the final fight await us."


	27. Chapter 27

**Saeva Abyssi Chapter 27**

The bridge was just ahead, lying just beyond a delicate archway made from ossified bone. It lay open and exposed, tempting in its vulnerability. All that lay between the Space Marines and their ultimate objective were a teeming throng of Dark Eldar.

Toran pressed onwards, stabbing and hacking away with his Relic blade. The swirling madness of the melee surrounded him on all sides but he was perfectly aware of the placements of all of his force. Around him his command squad were in the thick of the fighting, their scars were many but they fought on regardless. Novak's hand and face were ravaged and Persion had lost an arm but they battled on, reaping a fearful tally. Bylan was holding the Standard high and inspired by its proud colours the Storm Heralds refused to be found wanting. However they were not alone in this fight, for they had linked up with the squads of Sergeants Matheus and Lorath. Their Marines were pressing forward with utter determination, showing the Eldar neither respite nor mercy. There was one other Astartes present, Chaplain Wrethan who was right at the front. His great Crozius rising and falling like a metronome, each blow ending an Eldar life. He bellowed his praises to the Emperor as he fought, stoking the Space Marines' zeal and driving them onto ever greater feats of valour.

Set against them was the last of the Dark Eldar's resistance, a rag-tag mix of bridge crew and elite warriors. The Xenos were throwing everything they had left at the Storm Heralds and yet it was having little effect. The Astartes had conquered whole worlds with less and this pathetic rabble couldn't hope to deny their advance.

Toran drove his sword into the back of a lithe warrior, the point of the blade erupting out the other side as the Eldar shuddered in death. He shook the corpse off his sword and looked around, seeing the Space Marines making their final push. The archway to the bridge was just ahead and once it was theirs the whole ship would fall. Toran was about to order his Marines on when the heaving scrum parted and he saw a figure he recognised. A Lord of the Dark Eldar, clad in dark armour that glistened like wet blood and bearing a long, thin sword. Toran gasped as he recognised the sight, for it was an Eldar he had faced before and defeated.

Suddenly recent events made sense to him, the surprise attack and the dogged, relentless pursuit. This Lord was here for revenge, petty banal revenge, nothing more, nothing less. Even the presence of the Chaos Marines made sense, who knew what accursed bargains Athra J'rect had struck in the name of revenge?

Toran raised his sword before his face and shouted at the Archon, "Now you must face me filth!"

Athra J'rect laughed merrily and cried back in reply, "No, now you must face her!"

Toran frowned in confusion but then arose a high pitched shriek from behind him. The Captain swung about and was shocked to see a single white-clad being, standing with arms outstretched. She bore a thin staff in one hand and the other was held out before her in a grasping gesture while upon her breast was a glowing jewel that shimmered with eldritch light. Toran didn't understand who this was or how they came to be here, but it didn't matter for the hairs on the back of his neck were shivering. His transhuman brain immediately recognised a clear and present danger, something that could change the course of the whole battle.

Toran was about to redirect his forces but before he could say a word the eye lenses on the newcomer's helm blazed with crackles of lightning and the temperature fell like a stone. Toran heard Jediah cry, "Witch!" but then they were all blasted by a hurricane force wind that blew out of nowhere.

The power of the tornado hit the Astartes like a sledgehammer, driving them backwards with boots carving grooves into the deck. It slammed into their bodies, pulling them back and preventing them from advancing. Toran gritted his teeth and hunched over but the wind thundered into him too, holding him still and forcing him to merely hang on. It was not only the Space Marines who were affected, the Dark Eldar were hit just as hard. They were pulled off their feet and slammed into the walls, delicate bones and fragile organs broken by the forces at play. They thrashed and screamed but were helpless to resist as the cyclone hammered into them, breaking bodies and snuffing lives out. The white-clad witch however didn't seem to care that she was killing her own kind. She poured on power, calling the wind into being with her mind and Toran heard her shriek, "Die filthy, Mon-Keigh! In the name of Idharae, you shall all die!"

The cyclone was all-consuming as it battered at the struggling warriors of both sides, yet there was one being who was unbowed. Chaplain Wrethan was stood firmly in the midst of the tornado, facing the Witch defiantly. With sheer force of will the Chaplain took one ponderous step towards the Witch, then another and another. Toran had no idea how the Chaplain was still standing, yet alone moving but it was the most inspiring thing he had ever seen. The sheer indomitable will of the Chaplain set against Eldar trickery and deceit, the irresistible force set against the immovable object. Wrethan's black and gold armour shone gloriously, his skull mask glowered with hate and his Crozius was a promise of inevitable destruction.

With unconquerable determination, Wrethan marched into the face of the tornado and he cried, "Your sorcery is no match for the Divine-Emperor!"

The Witch laughed and cried, "Foolish creature, your God is nothing but a rotting skeleton set upon a Pain-Engine!"

Wrethan growled, "You know nothing, the Emperor is always with me."

The Witch's laugh faded as she saw the Chaplain closing in, she growled in anger then summoned her power in a new and more deadly aspect. A halo of blue lightning played around her body, then with a wave she unleashed it, spitting deadly power at the Chaplain. Wrethan however wasn't caught unprepared, with a second's warning he bent over and scooped up a thrashing Dark Eldar from the deck. He gripped it with one hand and pulled it up before him, holding the Xeno up like a shield. The lightning engulfed the terrified alien, consuming it in a blaze of power. Incandescent light erupted from the creature as it screamed inhumanly, then it detonated in an explosion of light and energy, reducing it to ash.

The act had spared Wrethan's life but the force of the blast knocked him back. He went staggering to the deck, stunned momentarily and falling before the Witch's power. Toran snarled in outrage to see the Chaplain laid low and the anger gave him the push he needed to rise to his feet. He forced himself forward, taking one ponderous step into the oncoming wind, refusing to be cowed by its power.

The witch saw him coming and turned her attention fully upon him crying, "You! You are the one! You have to die; you must die and seal your race's doom!"

Toran took another ponderous step and yelled, "Never, it is you who shall die!"

The Witch shrieked in mad anger and screamed, "The future demands your death! Once the Primarch is gone your race's doom will be certain. You can't save the Primarch; I won't allow you to save him!

With those words the Witch summoned the lightning once more and threw it at Toran. The Captain saw it coming but had no cover and no way to avoid the strike, it descended on him like a waterfall of light and engulfed his body. Toran screamed as no Astartes ever should, searing agony ripped through him etching every nerve ending in fire and shredding his nervous system. Toran's whole world was made of razor blades, every inch of his body screaming in torment as the alien energy sank its claws into every single cell of his being. Fire licked at his skin as the cold embrace of the grave gripped his bones and the silence of death filled his ears.

Toran sank to his knees as the power carved him apart, gouging at his very lifeforce and making his last moments a crescendo of anguish. On and on and on the pain came, second after second dragging out into eternity as agony consumed him and made him its own. And yet through it all there was a thought, a single mote that Toran held onto with all his being: he wasn't dead yet.

Why wasn't he dead?

Toran forced his eyes open and was startled to see a shimmering golden halo surrounding him, a miraculous light covering his body. Most of the lightning was punching through it but not enough to kill him, just to hurt him. Toran was amazed by this miraculous intervention and he wondered was this the power of the Emperor at work? Was he truly Divine after all?

Then Toran felt something burning red-hot behind his head and he realised the truth. This was no miracle it was his Iron Halo: the Force-field generator was straining to the limit to keep him alive. Toran's body was still wracked with agony but he muttered, "Pain is an illusion of the senses, fear an illusion of the mind," as he forced himself back to his feet. The torment was no less but he refused to yield, all his training and indoctrination letting him rise above it. Every inch of him felt like he was covered in broken glass but he took the agony and forced it to work for him, channelling the pain to stoke his anger into a blazing inferno of empowering rage. This was the essence of an Astartes, what set them apart from mere mortals. They did not ignore pain and fear as most assumed; they made it the fuel for their zeal.

The Witch shrieked with rage to see him standing once more and screamed, "No, this cannot be! Nothing can resist my storm!"

Toran lurched forward, every movement a tale of woe all unto itself but he mastered it and staggered on, closing upon the Witch. Even as the searing lighting and the brilliance of his force-field struggled for supremacy he raised his sword high and yelled, "We fear neither the thunder nor the lightning, for we are the Emperor's Storm!"

Then he swung his sword down towards her head as he cried, "We are His Wrath!"

The mighty sword descended like a thunderbolt, unstoppable in its power and momentum but at the last millisecond the witch jerked backwards, bending out of the way. The point of the sword just missed her face by a hairsbreadth, sparing her life. Yet the absolute tip of it carried on straight down, to impact the glowing jewel set upon her chest.

There was a brilliant flare of purest light and a blazing conflagration of energy as the stone shattered and the Witch screamed in pain and horror. Light and heat spilled out in a cascade of potent energy, far more than such a little bauble should be able to contain. Toran felt the psychic energy spilling out, carrying with it love and hate, courage and fear, compassion and cruelty as multi-coloured hues of heat and light. Then there was the hideous laughter of a Chaos God, coming to claim its prize.

Toran was thrown away by the power of the blast, crashing down upon his back as stars flashed in his eyes and his head span. All was hazy confusion and disorientation and for long moments he could not make sense of anything at all. Slowly the room stopped spinning and Toran sat up, seeing the other Astartes similarly affected, groggily picking themselves up. One by one they sat up and Bylan called out in amazed wonder, "+Captain, you did it!+"

"No," said Toran woozily, "Where is the body of the Witch and where is the Archon?"

Everybody looked about and saw that the bodies had indeed vanished, tellingly alive in their absence. Toran gathered himself up but Furion called, "Captain, you shouldn't be moving in your condition."

Toran however refused to be mollycoddled, even though it felt like glass shards had been lodged into his every joint, he forced himself to his feet and held his sword in an aching hand as he commanded, "Quickly, get after them. We can't let them escape!"


	28. Chapter 28

**Saeva Abyssi Chapter 28**

Fire and smoke filled the interior of the Dark Eldar ship, the last sparks of life cooling to embers as the battle ended. Echoes of roaring chainswords and thin screams rang down the passageways as the battle played out, but they were getting fewer as the Storm Heralds swept all life from the ship. The true battle was over, all that remained was the last grisly mopping up as the Space Marines ensured that not a single foe was left alive. There was no question of mercy: the Dark Eldar certainly would have shown none in return.

Along those passages a being furtively dashed along, clad in dark armour that glistened like wet blood and bearing a thin sword. It was Athra J'rect and he was fleeing for his life, running away from the battle like a defeated cur. He was not alone though, thrown over his shoulder was a being in stained white robes. It was T'selia and she was unconscious.

Athra had seen her defeated in the battle and the blazing eruption of spiritual-energy as her soul-stone was destroyed. Athra had seized the moment of confusion to dash in and snatch her up, carrying her away before the Gene-bulks could recover their senses. There had been no question of rescuing anybody else, none of his servants was of any further use to him and he would not risk his precious skin to aid them. Besides if the Gene-bulks paused to dispatch their worthless lives then that would buy him a few more seconds to flee.

Athra was filled with anger and confusion; he had never imagined that the battle would go so ill. The Gene-bulk leader had withstood the might of an Eldritch Storm, something that he would never have conceived as being possible. The stubborn, brutish creatures had ruined everything, wrecking his carefully laid out plans. No, Athra realised, it had been that vile Sorcerer Beta, he was the one who had ruined it all. Athra had believed that he had Beta in the palm of his hand and had laid out the perfect trap to eliminate him as soon as he tried to leave. It would have been deliciously painful and ironic, but then the Sorcerer turned out to have secreted his Flagship nearby.

The lying bastard had been hiding it right under Athra's nose; he must have been laughing his face off the whole time. Athra slightly admired the deception, it had been treachery worthy of a Drukhai, but still he wasn't about to let the Mon-Keigh get away with it. Athra swore that no matter how long it took, no matter where the cur hid, the Archon would find the Mon-Keigh and make him pay.

Athra was shaken from his brooding by a scuffling noise in the drifting smoke before him. He paused and raised his blade, expecting Gene-bulks or rabid crewmen but that was not what emerged. From the soot limped a hunched and pale being, festooned with vials and surgical scars. Athra almost barked a laugh of relief as he realised that it was his Haemonculi Vl'hyas. The surgeon-torturer saw him coming and hastily limped over, no doubt expecting the protection of Athra's blade. Athra considered for a moment just cutting him down, but then T'selia shifted on his shoulder and he changed his mind. The surgeon's skills could be quite useful and the Archon waved him over shouting, "Vl'hyas over here!"

The Haemonculi hurried over and looked confused as he said, "Lord, what is happening?"

Athra replied, "The battle is lost and the ship is overrun."

Vl'hyas asked, "Where is Dramaq?"

Athra replied dismissively, "Dead, may She Who Thirsts gnaw on his gristle for a thousand years. I paid a fortune in slaves for his services and then he goes and gets beaten by a mere Gene-Bulk!"

Vl'hyas looked at the Farseer with a frown and said, "But you brought her?"

Athra replied, "I wasn't about to leave without her, I have invested too much time and wealth in her to let her go now. Here, make sure that she's still breathing."

Athra shrugged the body of the Farseer into the Haemonculi's arms and the surgeon checked her vitals before saying, "She's alive but her soul-stone has been destroyed, not removed but completely destroyed."

Athra asked, "Can she survive that?"

Vl'hyas answered, "I have no idea, I've never heard of this happening before. I have no idea what that will do to her soul, she might just wither and die regardless."

Athra snarled, "If she dies, you die. Now follow me, we are getting out of here."

With that the Archon led them on, the Haemonculi following with the Farseer in his arms. They proceeded quickly to the lowest decks of the ship, taking care to avoid any hints of Gene-bulk presence. It wasn't hard, the roaring of the chainswords, the bellowing imprecations to their corpse-god and the screams of the crew being cut down gave Athra plenty of warning.

Soon Athra found his way to a small chamber tucked away in the depths of the ship. It was thin and narrow and one wall was covered in hatches for the escape pods. Most sealed, the pods already departed, but one hatch still lay open and inviting. Before that hatch a score of crewmen were fighting, making a tight scrum of bodies and flashing knives. Drukhai screamed and blood flowed as they desperately fought over the last escape pod. Athra wasted not a moment; he leapt into the fray with his long blade flashing. He lashed out left and right slicing off limbs, cutting throats and opening arteries with eye-watering speed. The crew cried out as their lord cut them down, begging for mercy but Athra was relentless and in moments he had reduced them to ruin.

The bodies fell and Athra flicked blood off his sword contemptuously. A Mon-Keigh would have paused then to justify this deed, claiming that they were already doomed or that they should be proud to die for their lord and master. Athra however was above such conceits: they had been in his way and he had removed them. He waved Vl'hyas to follow him and then stepped into the pod; it was a small and narrow craft, barely able to hold a half-dozen. The fact that he could have saved a few of his crew didn't even occur to the Archon. Athra threaded his way around the grav-couches and took his place in the pilot's chair nestled below a curved transparent membrane-window, then he activated the psy-crystal controls with a mere mental impulse.

The escape pod was unlike its Mon-Keigh counterparts, those squat and cumbersome things. This craft was sleek and dart-like, with tiny wings and a smooth black hull. It could have been mistaken for an aero-fighter save for its light weaponry, merely a lone Dark Lance, but it did possess an independent Shadow-field. It also boasted a Webway-portal activation device, no Drukhai would ever sit about waiting to be rescued, not when the rescuers were more than likely to immediately enslave them. Athra swept a hand over the crystals and felt the pod come to life around him, arcane engines powering up and Shadow-fields humming into life.

He glanced behind him and saw Vl'hyas and T'selia had been strapped into their grav-couches, the Farseer moaning dreadfully in her unconscious state as her head thrashed from side to side. Athra nodded to himself and with a mental impulse ordered the pod to launch. The craft leapt into life, hurtling down a long tube that led to the outer hull. Grav-forces pressed him back into his seat as the craft accelerated smoothly and ribbed braces shot past his eyes, then the pod was spat out into space.

A field of stars made themselves visible, stretching out to eternity and glorious freedom. Athra's lips peeled back over his teeth as he saw the vast reaches of space expand before him but there was a problem. Sat right in his view was the crude Mon-Keigh vessel, scarred and bloodied but still a power to be reckoned with. It was laid across the escape route and surrounded by flashes of distortion that signalled other escape pods fleeing for their lives. The Mon-Keigh ship was spitting fire in all directions, trying to swat down the absconding pods as stubby winged gunships flitted about chasing the elusive ghosts.

Athra sneered in contempt; even Eldar sometimes fell prey to fallacies. It seemed his foolish crew had forgotten that space was three-dimensional and extended in all directions. Clearly there were no dedicated void-pilots on those pods. Athra shook his head and pointed the nose of his escape pod straight down, fleeing away from the Mon-Keigh craft in a totally different direction. As they fled Athra called up a pict-image of his ship shrinking rapidly behind him. He could see the Rapture of Excruciation was dead and cold, reduced to a drifting hulk. Its hull broken and its wings shredded, it would fly no more. The sight made Athra sad, the ship had been of more value to him than any living being. A part of him was tempted to turn around and fly back, seeking revenge but he suppressed it, he would not let sentiment get in the way of his escape.

Suddenly Athra's attention was drawn to a flashing red crystal, alerting him that his escape pod was being scanned. He checked and realised that one of the stubby gunships was headed his way, alerted that something was awry in this region. The junker's crude sensors were no match for the sophistication of his Shadow-fields but clearly something was showing up on their instruments. Athra considered his options, he could cut their engines and coast away, letting stealth and secrecy cover his escape. Another option was to turn and engage, facing his pursuer in a mesmerising duel to the death. Athra dismissed this option as pure bravado; he would not risk his precious life in such immature displays. Not when he had a third, more amusing option at his fingertips.

Athra linked his mind into the escape pod's psychic network and compelled it to reach out to the other fleeing craft. The psychic network was gossamer thin and undetectable to any save another of his kind, but it was effective. Athra called upon his authority as Archon and reached into the systems of every other escape pod, then he overrode their operators and shut off their Shadow-Fields.

Immediately scores of tiny pods became visible to the Mon-Keigh brutes, seemingly appearing from nowhere. The savages went mad, blasting away into space and destroying pod after pod in a series of bright flashes. Athra watched as the nearby gunship also peeled off from its search, mindlessly chasing fleeing pods like a mastiff after a hare. Athra amused himself for a minute watching his own crew being massacred and chuckling at their futile attempts to escape.

Slowly his own pod flew out of range, and left the slaughter behind, drifting out into the stars and the blessed silence of the void. Athra sighed as he sailed away, knowing that he would live to fight again another day. He set the escape pod on a course that would sling it around the Gas-Giant and take it out to a very specific set of coordinates, where he could enter the Web-way in safety. It would take several days, but that would give him time to plan how he was to return to his Kabal's fortress safely and with no-one being the wiser as to what had happened here.

He turned around and rose from the pilot's seat, stepping back into the little pod where Vl'hyas was sipping at a small crystal philtre and idly flipping through a sheaf of parchments; some notes on torture no doubt. The Haemonculi looked up with a bored expression, as if he hadn't just been in mortal peril and said, "We escaped then?"

Athra nodded and replied, "We are safely on our way, nothing should oppose us now."

Vl'hyas rolled up his parchments and asked, "So now what?"

Athra merely reached out to stroke T'selia's golden hair making the Farseer moan in discomfort, as if experiencing terrible nightmares in her unconscious state. Athra knew exactly what she was going through; once she awoke she would know the terrifying truth and experience the ultimate horror. She would learn that she was suffering from the ravenous attentions of She Who Thirsts. The Chaos God that their race had spawned in their hubris, one that now knew her name.

Athra grinned and said, "Now we return to Commoragh, we have so much work to do."


	29. Chapter 29

**Saeva Abyssi Chapter 29**

The void between stellar systems was infinite and empty, an endless expanse of nothingness. Here wandered only stray atoms and lost asteroids, long since cast out from the warmth of their respective suns. Imperial ships avoided this place, risking the roiling insanity of the Warp rather than the centuries of drifting it would otherwise take. Yet today something was moving with a purpose.

In the eternal blackness the Shadow of the Emperor leisurely cruised on minimal thrust. It had made a short warp-hop to evade pursuit and now it was safe, here in this place where no one ever came. Deep within the Shadow's bowels was a profane temple, it was laid out like a classic chapel but its details were cruel mockeries of imperial faith. The walls were painted with icons celebrating the Dark Gods of Chaos, the braziers burned with unspeakable vapours and the altar was stained with blood.

Behind that altar a giant warrior was stood in full armour, bearing his double-headed axe in a tight grip , it was Gamma. He was here as both protection and insurance and he was glowering in stern disapproval. Before him another giant was kneeling, with his eyes closed and hands clasped. It was the Sorcerer Beta and he knelt unarmed and unarmoured, dressed only in a short robe. Even without his plate he was a looming giant, corded with swollen muscles and old scars. His flesh was inked with many tattoos, each one an eldritch and arcane symbol steeped in mysticism and hidden meanings.

The two of them were facing a ritual circle carved into the floor, filled with shimmering silver liquid that glowed with light reflected from somewhere other than reality. The lines formed multiple encircling wards and etheric barriers, but not just one for there were eight of them lapping over each other. Stood within those circles was a cultist with vile runes carved into his naked flesh. The cultist had his arm outstretched and a joyous look was upon his face; expectation of a transcendent reward for the sacrifice of his flesh.

Gamma had been firmly against this ritual summoning but he had been told it was necessary. Bargains had been struck and no one, not even the Alpha Legion, took such pledges lightly. One did not discard a deal with a Daemon without dire consequence. For hours they had held their positions as the ritual proceeded but Gamma had been on a hair trigger the whole time, ready and waiting for anything to happen. Suddenly the cultist froze, limbs locked into rigid positions and his eyes widening. Gamma gripped his axe tightly and waited for reality to rip apart.

This was a dangerous moment, when one summoned a being of the Warp there was no telling what would answer the call. Yet the Cultist did not explode into gore or grow fangs and horns, he merely stood silently for long seconds, frozen in place. Then finally something happened, his flesh rippled and from his back sprouted a pair of tiny wings that grew rapidly. They swiftly swelled into mighty pinions, shimmering with all the hues of the rainbow and extending down to brush the deck. His head lowered and he had a wide grin upon his face. He blinked for a moment and when his eyes opened they were no longer human but bottomless pits within which stars were born and died. The soul of the cultist was gone, sent not to the promised reward but instead to an eternity of suffering. Now, something other ruled his flesh.

His smile widened even more and from his mouth came multiple overlapping voices of men and women all saying as one, "I am the Harbinger of Tzeentch."

Gamma's spine shuddered at the Daemon's proclamation but Beta didn't seem concerned as he acknowledged, "Harbinger: as expected."

Harbinger cocked its stolen head and said, "What no pleasantries? How rude of you Beta, I thought we were friends."

Beta raised an eyebrow and said, "Friends with a Daemon? I think not."

"That makes me sad," sniffed the Daemon.

Beta snorted and said, "Quit playing for time, I know you are trying to burn through the wards. That's why I took the liberty of placing more than one."

Gamma glanced down and saw that the first line of shimmering silver had already evaporated, the Daemon having dissolved the ward into vapour. Harbinger tutted and remarked, "Not bad, from the Book of Magnus if I'm not mistaken. You should take care when relying on his research; he's not as clever as he thinks he is."

Beta ignored that and stated, "We have business to discuss."

"How ungrateful," commented Harbinger, "Without my tip-off you would never have known where to hide the Shadow before the battle even commenced. Without me, you would never have known how to block the Farseer's foresight."

"For which you were compensated," remarked Beta, "The Farseer was left alive as you demanded and the Dark Eldar were given plenty of opportunities to escape."

Harbinger nodded saying, "Yes and the changes already underway please Tzeentch. Not to mention it delights a certain Daemon of Slaanesh, tasting the soul of a Farseer is a rare delicacy. You cannot imagine what Fulgrim was willing to exchange for that."

The words sounded conciliatory but Gamma saw that as they spoke the second ward had dissolved; the Daemon was pushing to break free. Gamma tightened his grip on his axe and growled, "Stop stalling, just get on with it."

Harbinger looked over at him and exclaimed, "Oh Gamma, ever so blunt. You should take more care, did you know if Beta hadn't scooped you up as a child then you would have died long ago. Killed by a ganger at fourteen years old, all for speaking out of turn."

Beta snarled, "Forget the past, the future is all that matters."

Harbinger laughed and said, "Always the way with you isn't it, moving forward and never daring to look back. You leave a trail of dead in your wake: Indrago Theed, Vorshaan, Master Korswan, Habreal Gorch. On and on all the way back to the Unbroken Chain cell. Tell me did you ever disclose what really happened to them?"

The third ward dissolved and Beta snapped, "If you don't tell me what I want to know I will banish you right now."

"No you wont, you need my foresight, you need to know what will come next," Harbinger stated, "I will tell you this: the Age of the Imperium is over and the End Times have begun. The victory of Chaos is at hand, Gods and Demi-gods will walk the worlds of men once more… and the Primarchs too."

"Primarchs!" spat Gamma in shock, "Loyalist or Traitor?"

"Both," disclosed Harbinger with a laugh, "The board is set and the pieces are all lined up, all that remains is to play."

The fourth ward dissolved and Beta barked angrily, "The Primarchs are obsolete, the Traitors are enslaved and the Loyalists gone, even if they could return they cannot change anything."

Harbinger gazed at him with interest and asked, "And what of your own Gene-Fathers?"

Beta angrily uttered, "Alpharius and Omegan are no more."

"Are they?" inquired Harbinger with a grin, "You should take care Beta: your dead do not rest easily and they are closer than you think.

Beta snarled, "The twin-Primarchs have been eliminated, I made sure of it!"

Harbinger exclaimed merrily, "The Hydra has died many times before and has always returned."

Gamma saw that the fifth Ward had dissolved and unnatural shadows were growing in the corners of the temple. Beta saw it too and growled, "Enough of this; I am banishing you right now."

"Now, now," said the Harbinger with a consoling expression, "No need for haste, tell me what it is that you desire, I want to help."

Gamma eyed the Daemon suspiciously but Beta held up a data-crystal and demanded, "The gene-tech, how do I use it? The Harrowmaster wants his weapons; he wants a Legion of superior Chaos Marines."

"The Harrowmaster?" mused Harbinger, "You really shouldn't trust him: he has designs beyond those you know."

The sixth ward dissolved and as the shadows stretched out, making silhouettes of men with long fingers. Gamma grew angry and barked, "Tell us what we need to know!"

Harbinger smirked and said, "Do you really think that you lot are the only ones attempting to improve the Gene-seed, Fabius Bile has been working on the same thing for millennia."

Beta snorted in dismissal and replied, "You think we don't know about him, his efforts are doomed. His research was corrupted before he even began, he will never make a stable product. We want real advancement."

Harbinger tapped his chin with a long finger and said thoughtfully, "Hummm… then I suggest you look into the secrets of Mars. There is a Magos called Belisarius Cawl who has some information you will find most interesting. Of course he would never give it to the likes of you."

Beta shrugged and said, "Infiltrating his followers should be no difficult thing, we can obtain what we need with no-one being the wiser."

"Yes a delightful change," remarked Harbinger, "I delight in knowing that I played a part in it. I look forward to seeing what you do next."

Gamma saw that the seventh ward was gone, leaving only one left. He raised his axe as the shadows closed in but Beta had already begun chanting the ritual banishment. The Harbinger began to fade, his wings evaporating and the flesh of his host withering before their eyes. The Daemon didn't seem disappointed though, merely looking at them levelly as if he had already accomplished his goal. As the stars in his eyes faded his voice echoed as if from a great distance, "Take heed of what I said: your dead do not rest easily and they are closer than you think."

At last the Harbinger faded away, letting its host's body fall to the floor in a withered, decayed state. Silence fell and mercifully the shadows retreated back to their allotted places. Gamma glanced down and shuddered to see that there was only one ward left, Beta had cut that one far too close for comfort.

Beta sighed and stood up but Gamma queried, "What was all that supposed to mean?"

Beta shrugged, making his many tattoos writhe as he said, "Ignore it, Daemons delight in spreading confusion and turmoil. If you dwell on its words they will twist your sanity and make you a puppet to the Warp."

Gamma sighed in gladness that this was over and said, "So where next?"

Beta replied, "Set course for Legion outpost Kappa-tango-3, we will start our preparations there."

Gamma nodded and set off to make it so, marching out with his head held high. Beta watched him go, standing still and silent until he was alone. When he was sure that he was unobserved the Sorcerer let out a tense breath and laid a hand upon the altar, simply breathing for a moment. Then he depressed a small rune causing a faint a click and a whir.

Behind the Sorcerer a small panel slid away in the far wall, revealing a cavity beyond. Beta turned and slowly approached, seemingly reluctant to enter. Yet enter he did, stepping into the dimly lit hole in the wall. Contained within was an odd assortment of dusty fossils, scraps, remnants of ancient battles and times long gone.

There were broken pauldrons and cracked greaves, blackened bolt pistols and shattered gauntlets, sundered chestplates and pierced helms. It was a motley assortment of parts, each different and unique yet they shared one common feature. Each one was emblazoned with a ring made out of linked loops, an eternal circle: the mark of an Unbroken Chain. Beta paused as he gazed at them, then he reached out and picked up a broken helm. He ran a finger around the mark painted on its brow and sighed sadly. Softly he whispered, "I am sorry Brothers, I wish it could have been different. I wish Alpharius had…"

Then he stopped speaking and roughly slammed the helm back into place. He stepped back and let the door slide close once more, before turning and marching briskly away. As he did so his robe shifted slightly and moved across his back, exposing another tattooed symbol upon his shoulder. It was old, faded and almost covered by other icons. It was a simple ring formed out of linked loops, making an eternal circle.

The mark of an Unbroken Chain.


	30. Chapter 30

**Saeva Abyssi Chapter 30**

Astu was a shimmering dot in the distance, a tiny green emerald amid an infinite number of diamonds. Its light was fading from view and soon it would disappear entirely. Far away from that dot the Thunderchild was sailing away, cruising out into the darkness of interplanetary space. She was scarred and bloodied but proud regardless; she had claimed her first blood and proved her worth. Now she was heading out to the Warp Translation point, to return home for refit and formal commissioning.

Throughout her decks the Serfs laboured, their duties barely any less arduous than when they had been in full battle. Yet they were in high spirits, they sang chanties as they went about their toil and proclaimed themselves blessed. Many whispered that the Thunderchild was a lucky ship and a few rubbed bulkheads for good fortune or patted panels affectionately. All thoughts of curses and jinks were gone, the crew had been united in victory and now had become one body of men.

On the Thunderchild's bridge crewmen went about their duties with calm efficiency, happily performing their tasks as Servitors chattered mindlessly. All knew that they were headed home and even the looming journey through the Warp could not dampen their spirits. So they worked with glad hearts and smiles on their faces, while far above their heads the Navigator made his preparations within his armoured blister-dome.

Standing at one end of the Bridge was Captain Toran; he was waiting below the Oculus and gazing out of its armourglass aperture. He was surveying the length of the ship, looking along its kilometres long hull and taking in the damage. His augmetic eye zoomed in upon various scars and rips in the armour, places where men had fought and died under his command. Casualties among the mortals had been considerable and once such matters would have troubled him. Yet now he told himself that they had battled for their Chapter and their Emperor and their deaths had not been in vain. They had made a difference with their lives and no man, not even an Astartes, could hope for more.

Toran considered their destination, the Thunderchild was headed back to Lujan II, the Storm Heralds homeworld. Once there she would be lovingly restored, her wounds made good but her scars would be meticulously documented and would form the first chapter of her saga. Toran would also have to file a report with Chapter Master Gorgall and the other senior officers. He suspected that they would be astonished at how a simple shakedown trial had actually turned out. Yet he was confident that his ship and Company had acquitted themselves well and would be commended for their service under fire.

Toran heard the crump of armoured boots behind him and turned to see Chaplain Wrethan approaching, along with Third Company's command squad. Furion, Bylan and Jediah were marching proudly in their battered plate, a record of their valour and courage in the fighting. Persion however had his right arm exposed, revealing how it abruptly ended below the elbow. His forearm had been fitted with a metal ring, an interface for the augmetic replacement hand that would be bestowed when they reached Lujan II.

Yet that was nothing compared to Novak's injuries, his left hand was encased in a medical gauntlet, drilled with metal rods to hold in his bones in place while his flesh regrew. It was his face that drew the most attention though, a scarred and burned visage that drew gasps of revulsion from the serfs. Apothecary Memnos had removed the shrapnel from his face, cursing the whole time that it was a bloody miracle Novak had not lost his eyes with such a fool stunt. Unfortunately the scars were deep and would not heal, his handsome face was gone, now he would be forever pock-marked and burned.

Novak was trying not to be bothered by the horrified stares of the Serfs but to Toran it was obvious that he was discomforted by the whispers behind his back. Toran heard Persion mutter as they walked, "Don't worry so much, it's barely noticeable."

Novak glanced at him and asked "Really?"

"Yes, now you look like a proper warrior," replied Persion, "Besides you were always ugly, so nothing's changed there."

Novak tried to grin but winced when his burns pulled at his skin. Bylan stepped in and said, "+Think of it this way, now you can actually scare our enemies. They will stop laughing at your babyface looks+"

"Babyface?" snorted Novak, "You can talk!"

Toran shook his head, despite their ferociousness in battle his Command squad retained a warm camaraderie and he wouldn't have it any other way. The squad marched up to the Captain and made the sign of the Aquila, then Wrethan declared, "Inspection complete, all compartments secured, the ship is ready for Warp translation."

"Excellent," stated Toran, "And the Squads?"

Furion answered, "They are in good spirits, another magnificent victory for Third Company."

Toran nodded and stated, "Yes, they fought well indeed. Honours and awards will surely follow. I have received several recommendations from the Sergeants regarding commendations for various initiates."

Furion remarked, "I recall Matheus saying that one of his squad was a mere hundred kills from receiving his Marksman's laurel. This victory must have brought him much closer to that outstanding achievement."

Toran agreed, "A most glorious victory but an unexpected one, we never thought this ship would be plunged into battle so soon."

Furion stated, "The Thunderchild performed above expectations, she had proven her worth. Hevostan is delighted; he says the Omnissiah has smiled upon this vessel. The Thunderchild will make a fine addition to our fleet roster and those Reflex shields will be most useful in the future."

Toran frowned and said, "Speaking of which, where is Magos Castabore?"

Bylan answered, "+She's gone back to her quarters, said something about making calibrations. She thinks there's room for improvement in our energy equations+"

Toran nodded and said, "Good, it will keep her occupied at least. In the meantime I have sent an Astropathic message to the Forgeworld Crux Lapis, I expect the Mechanicus will be sending a ship to inspect the hulk of the Dark Eldar cruiser."

Jediah spat, "Xenos tech! It is a blasphemy, I suspect the Cog-boys will just chuck the damned thing into the nearest star and be rid of it."

Furion remarked, "That would be most rash, careful analysis of the enemy craft could reveal key weaknesses and tactical data. We could learn critical information from this."

Jediah didn't look convinced but Toran said, "Let the Tech-Priests worry about matters of techno-theology, we should concentrate on redressing our wounds and preparing for the next war."

Wrethan looked down and said, "First we must mourn our dead, thirteen Brothers laid down their lives for this victory. Once we are safely underway we must undertake the ritual observances as demanded by Chapter Tradition."

That statement gave everybody pause and they lowered their heads, silently honouring their lost Brothers. Toran knew death in battle was the inevitable fate of every Astartes but the loses never got any easier. The only comfort was that the gene-seed had been recovered from most of the dead Brothers; their legacy would be implanted in the next generation of aspirants. After a moment Novak looked up and asked, "So did we ever deduce why the Xenos attacked us?"

"Revenge," answered Toran, "That Archon was one we've met before; the Dark Eldar must have sought us out to avenge the slight to their race's pride."

"Well they won't make that mistake again," stated Persion, "We gave them a pasting and no mistake."

Jediah looked concerned and asked, "Are we certain that the Archon is dead?"

Wrethan declared with relish, "We blew scores of saviour pods to atoms; the chances of the Archon escaping are slim indeed."

However Furion said, "I would not count any enemy dead until we have seen the body."

Toran knew what he meant, too many times had foes slipped away only to return when least expected. It galled him to think that a foe could have evaded their just punishment but there was little to be done. If they encountered the Archon again then they would show him no mercy, but until then there were more foes out in the galaxy to confront: there were always more foes out there.

Toran heard Bylan speaking again, "+What confuses me is the appearance of the Shadow of the Emperor. Was it working with the Dark Eldar or not?+"

Toran answered, "That is not clear but it fired at all sides, we were fortunate to survive. That ship has become a blight upon the Imperium, attacking outposts as far away as Scapa Delve and Tragion Point. I know the Inquisition has kill-teams hunting it but we must redouble our efforts to put an end to its infamy."

Bylan looked confused and stated, "+But that monstrosity had us all dead to rights and could have obliterated us but it turned and ran+"

Furion tutted and declared, "We know it was taken by Vorshaan's minions from the Alpha Legion, so it was probably part of some devious scheme. They can't resist complicating things unnecessarily, show those snakes something simple and straightforward and they will have added three deceptions and four treacheries before you've even finished speaking."

Persion quipped, "I don't know, maybe it was just that Novak's new face scared them off!"

The squad chuckled at that, none louder than Novak himself. Toran was relieved to see that despite his injuries the squad would be treating him no differently.

Toran mused, "I do wonder what that Witch was doing, she was shouting some strange things about the future."

"Ignore it," advised Furion, "Eldar are devious by nature, so twisted are their minds that I am amazed they can even walk in a straight line."

Yet Wrethan didn't sound amused as he stated, "Do not make light of the enemies of the Divine-Emperor, they deserve only your hatred. When enemies attack each other it proves nothing, save their lack of honour." The Chaplain's words put a damper on their conversation and everybody tactfully respected his admonition.

After a moment Novak coughed and asked, "So, do we know where Third Company will be sent next?"

Toran shook his head and said, "No, but I am sure Chapter Master Gorgall will assign us a campaign before too long."

Jediah spoke up, "I hope it is somewhere where we can get some dirt under our boots. All this killing at long range wearies me; my sword has seen too little blood."

Bylan said eagerly, "+Maybe a place where we can see Titans in action+"

Persion chuckled and said, "Still holding out hope for that eh? Don't fret too much; live long enough and you will see plenty."

Toran smiled and saw that nothing could bring his Brothers down; they would face whatever the universe had to throw at them with courage and confidence. Toran stepped away from the Oculus declaring, "Come Brothers, we still have to get this ship home before we can start planning our next war. Let us show the serfs how it's done."

With that the squad headed back to their posts, eager to meet the future and confident that they would overcome whatever it had in store for them.


	31. Chapter 31

**Saeva Abyssi Chapter 31**

Commorragh city of twisted spires, Commorragh city where dreams went to die.

The Dark City was unusually lively today, the streets brimming with battling gangs and Kabal duelling in the skies above. The weakest gutter trash were torn apart while the strong exulted in their triumph, giddy on the rush of victory. These festivals of blood and carnage were regular events here, sometimes spawned by distant triumphs of the great lords but mostly triggered merely by the build-up of tension and bloodlust in the population.

Not everyone was taking part however; deep below the fortress of the Impaled Heart Kabal a great lord was touring his dungeons. Athra J'rect was leisurely making his way along, enjoying the sight of the slaves cowering before him. Athra wore his armour at all times now; until he could secure the services of another Incubus bodyguard his skin was not safe. Athra was not walking alone though; limping alongside him was the Haemonculi Vl'hyas, his hunchback forcing him to awkwardly skip along. Trailing behind them on a thick chain was a female Mon-Keigh slave, bound and gagged. This slave was unusual for the animal's skin was unmarked by whip or knife and her eyes knew no pain or poison. Athra had been keeping this slave isolated, saving it for a special purpose like a prize sow for slaughter.

As they walked Vl'hyas said, "Why are we down here? There are revels aboard that we could be sampling."

Athra shook his head and said, "Let them have their banal pleasures, I have seen it all before. I have a much more novel experience in mind."

Vl'hyas looked at him and said, "An expensive one, it cost you an entire fleet."

Athra waved away his concerns, "It was only ships and servants, I can always get more. My star is in the ascendant in Commorragh, the Impaled Heart Kabal has lost little."

Vl'hyas didn't sound so Blaise as he growled, "You may have lost little but I lost many fine specimens, included my prized Gene-Bulk!"

Athra's brow raised but the Haemonculi was an ally, not a servant, he could well offer his services elsewhere. Athra placated him by saying, "I will compensate you for your losses, a few raids and all will be remedied."

Vl'hyas snorted in disbelief but asked, "And what of the target? The Mon-Keigh that got away."

Athra shrugged and replied, "Gene-Bulks are all the same, I've killed scores. One more does not interest me. Besides I can always kill it another day."

With that he paused, stopping at a plain and non-descript door. He looked at it for a moment, then sent a psychic impulse to open the cell and reveal the interior. The door slid away and before them was a dank and dim cell, bereft of comforts or beauty. In one corner a small female was crouched, with her knees drawn up to her face and her head buried in her crossed arms. She was softly weeping and banging her head on her crossed arms but her lank, stringy and blonde hair gave her away. It was T'selia and she was in a terrible state. Gone was her proud armour and staff, along with her pride. Now she wore only a short robe, stained with filth and tears and her arms were marked by self-inflicted scratches.

The desecration of her body was shocking but the wounds to her psyche were far more telling. Her mental discipline had collapsed, the walls of her mind cracked and leaking. Her emotions were spilling out of her, psychically projected by her failing soul, whether she wanted them to or not. Even standing outside the room the despair, horror and hopelessness was overwhelming, making the cell reek with the wail of the damned.

Athra gathered himself up and stepped within, followed by Vl'hyas and the slave. The Haemonculi swiftly secured the Mon-keigh, binding it hand and foot to rings in the floor so it couldn't move. The Archon however approached T'selia and softly knelt beside her saying, "Farseer?"

T'selia didn't look up but whispered, "No more…"

Athra gently asked, "What was that?"

T'selia sobbed, "No more… I am no longer a Farseer. My wisdom was but a cup of water and have poured it out on the sand. My soul is broken, smashed when my soul-stone was destroyed. I have lost my foresight; I am blind to the Skein."

Athra said consolingly, "But you are still alive"

With that she looked up, revealing her tear stained face. She projected a wave of bitterness and spat, "Is this life? Is it?"

Athra nodded saying, "I understand your suffering."

T'selia shuddered and said, "How can you live like this? I can feel my life slipping away, like sand spilling between my fingers. My life-force is being ripped away, one strand at a time. She Who Thirsts is gnawing upon my soul, soon all that will be left of me will be a withered husk."

Athra explained, "It is the bane of our existence, we feel it every moment of every day."

Anger flared in T'selia's aura and she spat, "I won't live like this, you have to help me. Help me find a new soul-stone, take it fresh or tear one from another, I no longer care."

Athra shook his head and stated, "It won't work."

T'selia's aura filled with rage and her eyes crackled with power, her hand lashed out and a sudden telekinetic force shoved Athra away, throwing him to the floor. Vl'hyas cowered in a corner and the slave thrashed in its bonds as the former Farseer rose to her feet. As power shone from her eyes she cried, "Do not think that because I have lost my foresight that I am powerless. I still have my might; I could crush you right now! Send you to the Dark Gods before I go."

Athra struggled on the floor and he cried, "I say nothing you do not already know: your soul is too damaged. Even if I could find a soul-stone you couldn't bond with it: that part of yourself is already gone. But I never said that I wouldn't help you."

"Help me?" snarled T'selia as her power ebbed and she fell to her knees beside the slave with despair flooding her aura, "There's no help for me, my soul is being consumed piece by piece and there is nothing that can stop it now."

Athra gathered himself up and patted down his armour, then he drew a thin and sharp knife from his belt saying, "But maybe there is."

T'selia eyed the knife warily and said, "End it quickly then? Send me to my damnation fast rather than slow?"

Athra knelt beside her and shook his head saying, "No, there is a third way. A way to make someone else suffer in your place, to let another endure the attention of She Who Thirsts."

T'selia looked confused, but hesitant hope tinged her aura and she glanced at the slave saying, "It's impossible, I am not like you. My soul is being gnawed on and my life force slips through my fingers moment by moment. I am blind in the dark and I can't see the way."

"Allow me to show you the path," said Athra kindly as he took T'selia's hand and placed the knife in it. Then he guided her hand towards the Mon-Keigh, the animal's eyes widened in terror and it tried to back away but the chains held it still. T'selia looked unsure and said, "I don't understand…"

"Shhh," whispered Athra as he gently guided her hand, "Trust me."

Together they leaned in and then with one quick slice they cut an arm, letting a trickle of blood flow freely. The slave wailed and tears flowed as the unmarked skin was broken for the first time. Athra leaned back and took the knife as he said, "Can you feel it? Can you feel the attention of She Who Thirsts begin to draw away?"

T'selia paused and then a strange look crossed her eyes and she said, "Yes… yes, I can feel it. The gnawing on my soul has stopped, the hunger of She Who Thirsts has moved on. I…I, I feel like I was drowning under an ocean but now I have broken the surface."

Athra nodded but then he grinned and said, "But there's more. Reach out with your psychic senses, feel the pain all around you, feel the strength of it. It can rejuvenate you; it can fill your soul and replace all that you have lost."

T'selia looked confused and said, "How? How do I do that?"

Athra explained softly, "It's just energy, let it flow through you, let it suffuse every inch of you. You can feel it can't you? Feel it coursing through your nerves, tingling across your skin, making every cell of your body dance. The pain, it's like lightning, firing your soul to new heights, telling you that you're still alive. Feel the power of it at your fingertips, just waiting to be seized. It's yours… take it!"

T'selia's face filled with wonder as new life poured into her body, leeching off the pain to nourish her soul. For a second T'selia was once more who she had been, a vibrant being capable of feeling joy, but then the Mon-Keigh's blood stopped flowing and the tears settled down into a faint whimpering. T'selia's eyes widened and she cried in desperate terror, "No, it's stopping already! She Who Thirsts is coming back, my life-force is draining away again… Why isn't it lasting? Why has it stopped?!"

Athra knew that disappointment too well and explained sadly, "The effect only lasts as long the pain keeps flowing, as soon as it ceases your reprieve ends."

But T'selia wasn't listening; instead she grabbed the knife from Athra's hand and threw herself at the slave with a crazed hunger in her eyes, a mad desperate need consuming her.

Her knife struck over and over, drawing blood and terrified screams as she shrieked wildly, "Cry for me, you have to cry! You have to suffer! I need more, I need it all, all you have and more! I need your tears, I need your fear, I need your pain!"

The Archon stood up and slowly stepped back, joining Vl'hyas at the corner of the room. Together they watched the former Farseer as she descended into a frenzy of wild stabs, berserk cries of madness ripping from her lips as she was lost in unrestrained bloodlust. It was an eerie sight, the once poised and controlled T'selia lost to her savage and cruel nature, no better than the gutter trash that infested Commorragh.

Vl'hyas winced at a particularly brutal stab and said, "This is awful… the blade work is so crude and so simplistic. There is no artistry to this, a child could do better."

Athra shook his head and remarked happily, "You're missing the point, close your eyes my friend and feel the emotions filling the room."

The Haemonculi did as bidden and he felt the psychic bleed-through, T'selia's emotions were filled with rampant exultation and undiluted ecstasy. She was lost in her sensations, like a child discovering a new toy and just as pure. She was projecting the untainted ecstasy of a first kiss, the thundering heartbeat of a first embrace and the towering passion of meeting one's first lover all rolled into one.

The two Drukhai vicariously drank in the sensations, leeching off T'selia's bliss and tasting it for themselves. Vl'hyas nodded in understanding and said, "It feels like the first time I myself held a blade, the simple pleasure of discovery and the thrill of the new."

"I had become so jaded, so inured to the routine and banal," explained Athra as he sampled the elation emanating from the former Farseer, "But now I can do it all over again. Experience afresh every cut and slice, every poison and excruciation, every denigration and mutilation. She will become a willing mistress of pain and suffering and through her, I can experience it all over again."

The two sank back and simply enjoyed the sight of T'selia, throwing herself into a twisted darkness from which she would never return. Then after a moment Athra remarked, "You know, this has all turned out so much better than I could ever have hoped for."

The end


End file.
